"Sure! Want me to show you?"
"I should like it ever and ever so much if you would take a note there for me. Could you do that? Is it too far?"
Mother Cary patted Yetta's dark hair. "She can go over with Pap, when he goes to the store," she said. "She'll be real glad to; won't you, Yetta?"
So it came to pass that in the late afternoon Eleanor came in Mrs. Hetherbee's car. The boy Tim was resting so quietly that Rosamund had gone outside; she went swiftly down the little red path to the gate, and the two met, arms entwining, cheek to cheek, with little laughs and questions and soft cries.
"Your note said there was an accident!" These were Eleanor's first words. "Darling, that is not why you are here? You are not hurt?"
"Why I am here; but it was not I—I was not hurt! Look at me—feel me!"
"Nor Cecilia?"
"Nor anyone, you precious, that you know! A tiny mite of a boy, Eleanor, and I stayed to take care of him."
"You?"
"Oh, don't say it like that! And yet I don't wonder!"