CHAPTER XIV
SHE COMES TO GRIEF
Fairy was one of those buoyant, warm-blooded girls to whom sleep is indeed the great restorer. She slept soundly, sweetly, dreamlessly. And every morning she ran down-stairs so full of animation and life that she seemed all atingle to her finger-tips. Now she stood in the kitchen door, tall, cheeks glowing, eyes sparkling, and smiled at her sister's solemn back.
"You are the little mousey, Prue," she said, in her full rich voice. "I didn't hear you come to bed last night, and I didn't hear you getting out this morning. I am an abominably solid sleeper, am I not? Shall I get the maple sirup for the pancakes? I wonder if Jerry knows we only use maple sirup when he is here. I'm constantly expecting Connie to give it away. Why am I always so ravenously hungry in the morning? Goodness knows I eat enough—Why, what is the matter?" For Prudence had turned her face toward her sister, and it was so white and so unnatural that Fairy was shocked.
"Prudence! You are sick! Go to bed and let me get breakfast. Why didn't you call me? I'm real angry at you, Prudence Starr! Here, get out of this, and I will——"
"There's nothing the matter with me. I had a headache, and did not sleep, but I am all right now. Yes, bring the sirup, Fairy. Are the girls up yet?"
Fairy eyed her suspiciously. "Jerry is out unusually early, too, isn't he? His door is open. I didn't hear him coming down so he must have quite outdone himself to-day. He generally has to be called twice."
"Jerry has gone, Fairy." Prudence's back was presented to view once more, and Prudence was stirring the oatmeal with vicious energy. "He left early this morning,—I suppose he is half-way to Des Moines by now."
"Oh!" Fairy's voice was non-committal.