She was terribly distressed, but she was resolute.
“It is cold sliced pot roast,” said Mrs. MacAdams, in an awful voice.
A painful silence ensued.
“I’m hungry, Molly!” cried Frankie at last, in a most mutinous voice. “I don’t care what it is! I’m—”
“Frankie!” said she. “You shan’t eat it, and that’s all there is to it.” She took away the child’s plate. “I’m sorry,” she explained to Dr. Joe, in an unsteady voice, “but we have to be very careful about what he eats; and all that fat—”
“See here, Mrs. MacAdams!” said Dr. Joe entreatingly. “Can’t you rake up something for the child—milk—oatmeal—something of the sort?”
“Doctor,” said Mrs. MacAdams, “I can neither rake up nor scratch up anything else. This is the dinner I had prepared—for you. I was not informed that there would be”—she paused—“a party of guests.”
Then Dr. Joe had a bright idea—the sort of idea that would never have occurred to any one else.
“Tell you what!” he said. “Poor kid’s hungry. You know what suits him. Perhaps you could find something if you looked around in the kitchen, Miss Ryan, eh?”
He didn’t realize what he had done, but Miss Ryan did. She looked at Mrs. MacAdams with the nicest, most friendly sort of smile, but she got from that lady a look that roused all her native spirit.