“Why, Mrs. Blaisdell, what is it? No, she isn’t here. I’m so sorry! Can’t I do—anything?”
“Oh, I don’t know—I don’t know,” moaned the woman, flinging herself into a chair. “There can’t anybody do anything, I s’pose; but I’ve got to have somebody. I can’t stay there in that house—I can’t—I can’t—I can’t!”
“No, no, of course not. And you shan’t,” soothed the man. “And she’ll be here soon, I’m sure—Miss Maggie will. But just let me help you off with your things,” he urged, somewhat awkwardly trying to unfasten her heavy wraps. “You’ll be so warm here.”
“Yes, I know, I know.” Impatiently she jerked off the rich fur coat and tossed it into his arms; then she dropped into the chair again and fell to wringing her hands. “Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?”
“But what is it?” stammered Mr. Smith helplessly. “Can’t I do—something? Can’t I send for—for your husband?”
At the mention of her husband, Mrs. Blaisdell fell to weeping afresh.
“No, no! He’s gone—to Fred, you know.”
“To—Fred?”
“Yes, yes, that’s what’s the matter. Oh, Fred, Fred, my boy!”
“Fred! Oh, Mrs. Blaisdell, I’m so sorry! But what—is it?”