"Yes; she wants to speak to you."
Dorothy felt a strange misgiving at her heart, and said, sharply,—
"What for? What is she going to say?"
"I think," said Irene, gently, "she wishes to comfort you; your mamma is very, very ill."
"No, she isn't!" said Dorothy, desperately. "No, she isn't; not a bit more ill than she often is. I saw her last night, and she looked quite better—her cheeks pink, and her eyes bright."
"Well," Irene said, "I know Dr. Forman thinks her very ill, and he has sent for Canon Percival."
"For Uncle Crannie? for Uncle Crannie?"
"Yes," Irene said, "two days ago."
Dorothy stood irresolute for a moment, and then, with a great effort to control herself, said,—
"Let me go to your grandmamma; let me go."