Bettie's only response was a sob.
"Where in the world can we put the things?" asked Marjory, sitting up suddenly and displaying a blotched and swollen countenance very unlike her usual fair, rose-tinted face. "Of course we can each take our dolls and books home, but our furniture—"
"I'm going to ask Mother if we can't store it upstairs in our barn. I'm sure she'll let us."
"Oh, I wish Mr. Black were here. It doesn't seem possible we've really got to move. There must be some way out of it. Oh, Bettie, couldn't we write to Mr. Black?"
"It would take too-oo-oo long," sobbed Bettie, sitting up and mopping her eyes with the muslin window curtain, which she could easily reach from the foot of the bed. "He's way off in Washington. Oh, dear—oh, dear—oh, dear!"
"Why couldn't we telegraph?" demanded Marjory, with whom hope died hard. "Telegrams go pretty fast, don't they?"
"They cost terribly," said Bettie. "They're almost as expensive as express packages. Still, we might find out what it costs."
"I dow the telegraph-mad," wheezed Mabel from the wash-basin. "I'll go hobe ad telephode hib ad ask what it costs—I've heard by father give hib bessages lots of tibes. Oh, by, by dose is all stuffed up."
"Try a handkerchief," suggested Jean. "Go ask, if you want to; it won't do any harm, nor probably any good."
Mabel ran home, taking care to keep her back turned toward the Milligan house. During her brief absence, the girls bathed their eyes and made sundry other futile attempts to do away with all outward signs of grief.