"I'll run up to her room;" and, suiting her action to her word, in a moment Amy was knocking at Martine's door.
In answer to a feeble "Come in" she entered, only to find Martine lying face downward on the bed.
"Why, what is the matter, child?" she asked, affectionately stroking Martine's hair.
"Oh, nothing," came in muffled tones from the prostrate Martine, "only this has been such a long day."
"You are tired," responded Amy, "and probably you were more excited than you realized when you and Priscilla were lost."
"We weren't lost"—Martine threw considerable spirit into her voice,—"I knew just where we were."
"But we did not—" Amy, though amused, tried not to show her amusement—"we were rather alarmed, so really my mother and I ought to be the persons to collapse. Come, Martine, even if you are tired, you must cheer up, and go to bed."
"It isn't because I'm tired," and Martine's tears flowed afresh, "but I thought that to-night there would be a letter from my mother. There must be a mail in, and I have counted up the time from New York. There ought to be a letter to-night. I am sure that she's worse."