"My poor, poor children"—there was nothing but the sweetest sympathy in Mrs. Beauchamp's comforting touch—"I forgive you now—now while Susie is out there and I am still waiting for her. I will let you know directly we are back and they are safe. You must let me go now."
Their father had disappeared, and Dash came hurrying downstairs in a shamefaced, sidelong fashion to be comforted. He did not like being left beyond the reach of consolation. But Mrs. Beauchamp disengaged the clinging arms.
"We will sit up till we know about them," Dot said, with tears.
"No; you must go to bed and wait there," Mrs. Beauchamp said firmly. "I know," she went on hurriedly, as there were signs of another storm, "that it is far harder; but duties like that are hard, and it is the only thing you can do to help."
"Very well," said Dot, with commendable meekness.
"Very well," echoed Dash.
"Here, get back to bed." The master of the house, booted and mackintoshed, had come back into the hall, and the twins scampered up the stairs at the unaccustomed sternness of his voice. He had a glass of wine and some biscuits in his hand, and he spoke almost as severely to Mrs. Beauchamp as he had done to the twins. "Of course I am going with you. I have rugs and mackintoshes and some brandy. Can you suggest anything else? No," as she returned the half-emptied glass; "drink all the wine. I insist on it."
Mrs. Beauchamp obeyed mechanically. She seemed to feel new life, a sense of protection, an atmosphere of help; there was some one else to command and to decide.
The last sight she saw as she went out into the night was Dot's fuzzy head leaning over the banisters at a dangerous angle.