But on the fourth morning, when she entered the office, Mr. Raider met her with more excitement in his manner than she had ever seen before. As a rule, excitement does not sit well on nicely-rounded, pink-skinned men.
"Lark," he began hurriedly, "do you know the Dalys? On Elm Street?"
"Yes, they are members of our church. I know them."
He leaned forward. "Big piece of news down that way. This morning at breakfast, Daly shot his daughter Maisie and the little boy. They are both dead. Daly got away, and we can't get at the bottom of it. The family is shut off alone, and won't see any one."
Lark's face had gone white, and she clasped her slender hands together, swaying, quivering, bright lights before her eyes.
"Oh, oh!" she murmured brokenly. "Oh, how awful!"
Mr. Raider did not observe the white horror in Lark's face. "Yes, isn't it?" he said. "I want you to go right down there."
"Yes, indeed," said Lark, though she shivered at the thought. "Of course, I will." Lark was a minister's daughter. If people were in trouble, she must go, of course. "Isn't it—awful? I never knew of—such a thing—before. Maisie was in my class at school. I never liked her very well. I'm so sorry I didn't,—oh, I'm so sorry. Yes, I'll go right away. You'd better call papa up and tell him to come, too."
"I will, but you run along. Being the minister's daughter, they'll let you right up. They'll tell you all about it, of course. Don't talk to any one on the way back. Come right to the office. Don't stay any longer than you can help, but get everything they will say about it, and—er—comfort them as much as you can."
"Yes,—yes." Lark's face was frightened, but firm. "I—I've never gone to the houses much when—there was trouble. Prudence and Fairy have always done that. But of course it's right, and I'm going. Oh, I do wish I had been fonder of Maisie. I'll go right away."