"Don't open it, dear. I'm sure it's only a bill." Mrs. Walbridge did not even look at it.
"What time does the train start," she asked impatiently. "Oliver, you must help me. I've never been out of England, and I can't speak French."
Grisel opened her letter and read it through indifferently. "John will be back to-morrow night."
"Oh, then you'll be all right, darling," Mrs. Walbridge returned. "You'd better go and stay with Hermy. Or would you rather have Miss Wick come and stay with you here?"
"I don't want anyone to come and stay with me, and I don't want to go to Hermy's. I shall stay here, where I belong. Oh, mother, mother, if only we knew—if only we knew."
She bent down over the table and burst into tears, crying into her poor little handkerchief, that Wick saw had already received more than its share of moisture. He took a nice clean handkerchief from his own pocket, and gave it to her.
"Take this," he said kindly. "It's got some Florida water on it too."
She took it, between a laugh and a moan, and buried her face in its happy folds. Then he took out a notebook and his famous fountain pen, and began to scribble.
"Are you writing notes down for me?" Mrs. Walbridge asked. "Put down all the little things. Remember that I know absolutely nothing about travel. Oh, if only Paul could have gone with me."
He noticed that neither of them had mentioned, or apparently so much as given a thought to the absent husband and father.