"It's plain good luck," Marcia Lowe thought, "that Martin Morley is out of hospital." And then she smiled grimly up into the girl-face beside her, for Cynthia was fully as tall as she.
It was late afternoon when Tod Greeley strode over to Trouble Neck for no particular reason. Outside the door he stood and listened to low-spoken words and snatches of song.
"'Taint nowise normal, I reckon," mused he; "a woman's tongue and mind has got to have some one to hit up against, or the recoil is going to do some right smart damage to the woman herself." Then he knocked, and went in at the word of command to enter.
"Just conversationing with yourself?" he asked.
"Yes. Poor company's better than none. Sit down, Mr. Greeley; you're always welcome."
"I brought some news. Crothers' factory is plumb burnt to the ground."
"Land sakes!" ejaculated the little doctor in the idiom of her home town; "any damage besides the factory?"
"Crothers is right used up. They say he tipped over the lamp in his hurry to get up and—things happened."
"Dear suz!" Marcia Lowe was lapsing into old-fashioned speech.
"And Miss Lowe, little Miss Cynthia was thar after hours! They do say she acted like she was possessed. She pulled Crothers out of the flames and saved his life I reckon—that is, if it is saved! He ain't perked up much yet, 'cording to reports. But Miss Lowe—little Miss Cyn ain't come home! I'm tumble feared lest she went back again for something, and——"