William paled under his coat of tan. He gripped his wife’s arm with fingers that hurt.
“What is it--what’s happened?” he asked hoarsely. “They aren’t hurt or--dead?”
“No, no,” choked Sarah Ellen. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. They’re all right that way. They--they’ve gone to work! William, what shall we do?”
Again William Whipple gripped his wife’s arm with fingers that hurt.
“Sarah Ellen, quit that crying, for Heaven’s sake! What does this mean? What are you talking about?” he demanded.
Sarah Ellen sopped her eyes with her handkerchief and lifted her head.
“It was this morning. I was over to Maria Weston’s,” she explained brokenly. “Maria dropped something about a quilt mother was piecing for her, and when I asked her what in the world she meant, she looked queer, and said she supposed I knew. Then she tried to change the subject; but I wouldn’t let her, and finally I got the whole story out of her.”
“Yes, yes, go on,” urged William impatiently, as Sarah Ellen paused for breath.
“It seems mother came to her a while ago, and--and she went to others, too. She asked if there wasn’t some knitting or patchwork she could do for them. She said she--she wanted to earn some money.” Sarah Ellen’s voice broke over the last word, and William muttered something under his breath. “She said they’d lost all they had in the bank,” went on Sarah Ellen hurriedly, “and that they didn’t like to ask you for money.”
“Why, I always let them have--” began William defensively; then he stopped short, a slow red staining his face.