In her zeal to get the parlors clean, Bea had climbed the step-ladder to wash some ancient dust from the top of the folding doors, but the ladder tilted, and over she went soap suds and all; and in answer to a wailing cry, the rescuing family once more put in an appearance, to find that the cleanly heroine, had wrenched her ankle, and could not step on it, but must be carried to the sitting-room, to have the afflicted member rubbed with arnica.
"I tried to jump," she explained with pathetic rivers of tears. "Oh dear, what shall I do? I can't go to the picnic—nor have the company—nor anything—and I think it's too b-b-ad."
"Perhaps it is not so serious," said Mrs. Dering, with comfort in her voice, and in her swift careful fingers that were binding the swollen ankle in cool bands. "You will have to be perfectly still, and by Wednesday, I think it will be well; it is only a little twist, so don't feel so cast down dear." But Bea refused to be comforted, and sobbed herself to sleep that night. Not to go to the picnic, when Dr. Barnett had asked her to go in the phaeton with them, oh, it was too bad, surely!
Beyond hammering one of her fingers, till the nail swelled up with insulted feeling, and threatened to come off, nothing happened to Kittie, who considered herself specially blessed, and did her whole head up in papers on Monday night, so as to be sure and have it curl for Wednesday.
When Tuesday arrived, Bea had sunk to the lowest ebb. She knew she couldn't go, and there was no use talking. She was the most unfortunate girl that ever lived, and no one could deny it; and after making this assertion numberless times during the day, she gave up and cried despondingly, giving herself full freedom as she was alone; and so it happened that a young man came up the walk, and finding the front door open, came in, and a moment later, stood transfixed at the sitting-room threshold, to behold that utterly crushed looking figure on the lounge, with dishevelled hair, and hidden face; while the most heart-broken sobs crept out from behind a drenched handkerchief. No wonder he was alarmed, or that his voice trembled when he asked:
"What is the matter—what has happened?"
Bea nearly fell off the lounge in dismay, and only gave him one brief, startled glimpse of her wet face, then she stopped crying, and said after a reflective pause:
"Nothing—I guess."
"Nothing," he repeated, with a breath of relief, and then began to laugh.
"Won't you come in, Dr. Barnett?" said the discomfited weeper from behind her handkerchief, and with an attempt at dignity, "Excuse me for not rising; I'm—I'm lame."