"Dear little girl; poor little Cynthia! It's all right now."
When the girl was soothed and comforted she went to the store to buy food—anything to be had, for she knew instinctively that whatever was the cause, Cynthia had tasted no food that day.
"Come back soon!" moaned the girl crouching by the stove, "I am so afraid."
After she had eaten some stale crackers, soaked in diluted condensed milk, Cynthia sat up, still and pale, and faced Marcia Lowe dumbly, imploringly.
"Can you tell me, little Cyn?"
"No!" The voice was distant and monotonous.
"But something has happened, dear. I want to help you."
"The factory—is burned down!" A shudder ran over the rigid young figure. Marcia Lowe saw that she might hope to win her way if she did not startle the benumbed mind.
"Were you hurt, dear? Was any one hurt? When did it happen? How did you hear?"
After each question Marcia waited, and then put another. Still that fixed, steady gaze.