"Nan," she said as she came up, "what about Agneta?"
"What about her?" I repeated stupidly, as I glanced around. "She is not here?"
"Of course not," said Aunt Patty quickly, "but you saw her—how is she?"
"I did not see her," was my reply; "Jenny said she had started."
"Then what is the meaning of this, which a servant has just brought me?" aunt asked, holding out an envelope as she spoke. Within, hastily pencilled on a slip of paper, were the words:
"Dear Mrs. Lucas,—I am sorry to say that I cannot come. My head
is bad. Please express my regret to Mrs. Canfield."
"AGNETA."
I was amazed. Agneta had made no complaint of headache to me, nor had she seemed to be suffering in any way. One wild conjecture after another presented itself to my mind with lightning speed, and I suppose my expression betrayed something of what was passing within, for Aunt Patty exclaimed hastily:
"What is it, Nan? Of what are you thinking? Why do you look like that?"
"Oh, nothing," I replied hurriedly, "but I must go; I must find out what is wrong with Agneta."
"Yes, do," said my aunt; "walking in the sun may have upset her and obliged her to turn back. Go quickly, dear, and, if she should seem really ill, be sure to send word to me."