Hurriedly he finished brushing his hair and raced downstairs to the dining room. His father was already at the table and waiting for the children to take their places. Mrs. Armstrong in the meanwhile was adding the finishing touches in setting the table. “Before you sit down, Ken,” his mother told him, “will you please go out and call Betty. She must be outside somewhere playing.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Ken obeyed and went outside to look for his younger sister, who was five years old. It was a day in the latter part of August, warm, clear. Stepping out on the porch, he called out, “Betty! Betty!”
There was no answer. Ken looked in the yard, then in the garage where she sometimes climbed into the back of the car and amused herself playing with her doll. But she was not there either. Ken walked across the street and rang the Smiths’ doorbell. Mrs. Smith herself answered and Ken asked, “Is Betty here, Mrs. Smith?”
She shook her head. “No,” she answered. “She was playing with my little Helen until about an hour ago, when she left.”
“Thank you,” Ken said and walked away. On the sidewalk, he paused to think of all the places where she might be. Ken walked further down the street and stopped at the Morrison home. Paul answered the doorbell. “Hello, Ken,” he called.
“Hello, Paul. Is Betty here playing with your little brother?”
“Why, no, Ken. Pete has been at the park all day and has just returned.”
“That’s strange,” muttered Ken.