“Rather!” said Polly, a smile suddenly coming upon her troubled face in spite of all. “But Joslin—David Joslin—why, of course—I’ve seen him, yes. You’re right—we didn’t come in here after him.”
The look of genuine perturbation upon the faces of the two young women proved to the ancient dame that the news they had heard was serious enough for them, whatever cause there might be. Polly Pendleton’s dark eyes were a trifle dimmed as she turned once more.
“We’re sorry—we’re as sorry as we can be, Grandma,” said she. “We hadn’t any idea he was even sick. I don’t know what to do. But I think we’ll have to go back as soon as we can.”
“Ye kain’t git back afore to-morrer,” said Granny. “But the fustest thing to do is to come in an’ git something to eat. We’ll go over to Granny Williams’. Ye must be tired, the both of ye. The roads is awful.”
The shrug of Polly’s shoulder was endorsement enough for this general statement, and Nina, usually the more silent, employed likewise now an eloquent exclamation.
“I don’t believe the furrin womern has come back from up in the hills yit,” said Granny Joslin.
She did not note the sudden relief which came upon the face of at least one of her auditors. “But that don’t make no difference,” she resumed. “Thar’ll be plenty of room fer ye. If ye was up in my country now, I’d have ye come home with me, but it’s ten mile up the creek. I jest walked down this mornin’ along of my mewel takin’ sick a few days back.”
“You walked—ten miles!”
“I sartinly did. But like I said, ye kain’t walk that fer, bein’ furriners. Why, chile, frail-like as ye air, ye’d be plumb beat out by that time, an’ so would yore sister here—ye said yore sister, didn’t ye?”
“She’s more than that,” said Polly Pendleton. “She’s the only friend I’ve got now. We’re both awfully obliged to you, Mrs. Joslin. We certainly are. We’d do as much for you.”