And he sighed and answered bitterly: "Yes, I understand! God knows I understand!"
At last, then, they sat at table. Sybil, holding her hatchet behind her in temporary amity, glowed and sparkled, cheerfully proclaimed her interest in the cult of delicate feeding, and boldly challenged judgment on the principal dish before them, the chicken à la Maryland, sorely frightening her family by her reckless daring. But Mr. Bulkley, with Dorothy's wistful blue eyes upon him, without hesitation gallantly declared it could not be equalled this side of Mason and Dixon's line; and, to poor Lena's sorrow, proved his sincerity by accepting a second helping, which was hard on that help-maiden, who had not even eggs to look forward to later on.
But Mrs. Lawton's shiver of repulsion at the offered soup and her faint consent to the making of a little thin toast—"oh, very, very thin"—were so cleverly done that both girls mentally promised her a hug and a kiss by and by. And William Henry Bulkley, who lived solely for physical comfort and mental excitement, and was enjoying both at that moment, beamed and sympathized and complimented and ogled, and finally left the table swept so bare of food that the very locusts of Egypt might have gained points from the completeness of his ravages. And when with grateful hearts the Lawtons saw his red face smiling "good-by" from the gorgeous trap, as it went glittering down the drive, John went directly to his beloved willow, Letitia flew to the dining-room, but Sybil, dashing her fist upon the porch railing, cried, with white lips: "Oh, what a tawdry farce life has become for us! Dorothy Lawton, I go to Miss Morrell's to-morrow! If she helps me—good! If she does not, I'll kill myself! I swear I will! Oh, mamma—Lena! Come quick! Dorrie has fainted!"
CHAPTER VII
A PRAYER AND A PROMISE
Next day, in spite of the faint her sister had frightened her into, Dorothy's cheeks and lips wore their usual clear, bright color, and it was Sybil's face that seemed drained of blood down to the edges of her scarlet lips, while faint violet shadows lay beneath her brooding dark eyes. True to the resolve formed the evening before, she prepared herself, early in the day, for a walk over to Riverdale Avenue. She did not ask Dorothy to go with her, but when the latter noted the preparations being made, she cast down the paper she was dawdling over and herself made ready to go out, and Sybil put her arm about her sister's neck for a moment, in sign of gratitude for her companionship, and together they started forth to make the fateful call.
As they scrambled through the stony lane that made a short cut for them Dorothy said: "Did you pray to God to help you, Sybbie? I did."
"Oh!" recklessly replied Sybil. "I notice God generally helps those who help themselves!"
"You mean," corrected Dorothy, "who try to help themselves. All one can do by one's own self, Syb, is just to try. But God always keeps His promises, and will surely give help if you ask for it, believing in Him. And you do believe—you do, don't you dear?"