“Mr. Ross!” said Mrs. Barron, in the same tone of stern wonder.
“I’m sorry,” he said, again. “I’m afraid I’ve dis—”
“But, my dear boy, what has happened?” she cried.
He was absolutely astounded by her voice, by the kindly anxiety in her face.
“I just thought—” he began.
“Sit down!” said she. “Here! On the sofa. You do look so tired!”
“I—I am,” he admitted.
“And such a dear little girl!” said Mrs. Barron. “Such a dear little mite.”
She had sat down on the sofa beside the child, and was stroking her fair mane, while her eyes were fixed upon Ross with genuine solicitude. She looked so kind, so honest, so sensible—he marveled that he had ever thought her formidable.
“You wanted to see Phyllis?” she went on. “She’s out, just now; but you must wait.”