"O dear, I knew you'd exclaim out," sighed Cordelia; "but it's just got to be done. I suppose I ought not to have told you, anyway, but I couldn't bear to go up to that dismal place alone," she finished, tearfully.
"Why, of course not, dear; and I'm sure you did just right to tell me," soothed Genevieve, in quick response to the tears in Cordelia's eyes. "Now wait while I get my hat and ask Aunt Julia. She'll let me go, I know;—she'd let me go to—to London, with you."
"Just please say it's an errand—an important one," begged Cordelia, nervously, as Genevieve darted into the house.
In two minutes the girl had returned, hat in hand.
"Now tell me all about it," she commanded, "and don't look so frightened. Hermit Joe isn't cross. He's only solemn and queer. He won't hurt us."
"Oh, no, he won't hurt us," sighed the other. "He'll only look more solemn and queer."
"Why?"
"Because of what I've got to tell him. I—I suppose I ought to have written it, but I just couldn't. Besides, I hadn't found out anything, and so I didn't want to write until I was sure I couldn't find anything. Now it's done, and I haven't found out anything. So I've got to tell him."
"Tell him what, Cordelia?" demanded Genevieve, a little impatiently. "How do you suppose I can make anything out of that kind of talk?"
"O dear! you can't, of course," sighed Cordelia; "and, of course, if I've told you so much I must tell the rest. It's Hermit Joe's son. I can't find him."