"I gave her the smaller half of my orange," lamented Mabel, "the very last time I saw her. If—if I don't ever see—see her again——"
"Oh, well," comforted Marjory, hastily, "she might have been just that much sicker if she'd eaten the larger piece. But I wish I hadn't talked so much about boarding school. It always worried her and sometimes I tried [Marjory blushed guiltily at the remembrance] to make her just a little envious."
"I'm afraid," confessed Jean, "I sometimes neglected her just a little for Henrietta; but I mean to make up for it if—if I have a chance."
"That's it," breathed Marjory, softly, "if we only have a chance."
Then, because the March wind wailed forlornly, because the waiting had been so long and because it seemed to the discouraged children as if the chance, after all, were extremely slight—as slight and frail a thing as poor little Bettie herself—the four friends sat very quietly for many minutes on the rail of the Mapes's broad porch, with big tears flowing down their cheeks. Presently Mabel fell to sobbing outright.
Mr. Black, on his way home from his office, found them there. He had meant to salute them in his usual friendly fashion, but at sight of their disconsolate faces he merely glanced at them inquiringly.
"She's—she's just about the same," sobbed Jean.
Mr. Black, without a word, proceeded on his way; but all the sparkle had vanished from his dark eyes and his countenance seemed older. He, too, was unhappy on Bettie's account and he lived in hourly dread of unfavorable news. The very next morning, however, there was a more hopeful air about Dr. Bennett when he left the Rectory. Mabel, waiting at home, questioned him mutely with her eyes.
"A very slight change for the better," said he, "but it is too soon for us to be sure of anything. We're not out of the woods yet."
Next came the tidings that Bettie was really improving, though not at all rapidly; yet it was something to know that she was started on the road to recovery.