"She is very ill," Dr. Nowell said again, next morning, after his visit to his patient, which had been made early.
"I know she is," Miss Pamela answered sadly. "I am going to send for her mother."
"That is right," he replied. "Send at once!"
"Will you write to Mrs. Holcroft, Pamela?" her sister inquired, in eager tones. "Oh, I am so relieved to think that you are going to send for her!"
"No, I shall not write, I shall telegraph; and then she will have time to get here before night."
Miss Pamela took a telegraph-form from her desk, and wrote out the message—
"Marigold is very ill. Come at once." Then she rang the bell, and sent a servant off to the post-office with it.
So it came to pass that late that same evening Mrs. Holcroft arrived. As she stepped out of the cab that had brought her from the station, the front door was flung wide open, and she saw, standing inside, an old lady with white, corkscrew curls on either side of a gentle face that bore unmistakable traces of recent tears. Instinctively Mrs. Holcroft knew that this must be Aunt Mary.
"Is Marigold still living?" she asked, as she took the outstretched hand, and allowed herself to be led into the drawing-room. The thought that she might be too late to see her little girl alive had haunted her all the way on her journey down.
"Yes, yes," Miss Holcroft replied, "and now you are come she will get better, I hope!"