"Would it be worse than the Fractions?" asked Sara, hastily.
"It would," said the First Gunkus, in bass.
"It would," said the Second Gunkus, in the solemnest second bass.
"Much, much worse," said the Teacup, in her soft, anxious tremolo. "One snow remedied that, you see; but if a tear fell—but oh, dear, let's don't talk about it! My handle is so consanguineous, and I forgot to ask the Plynck—and—and—"
The poor old lady was evidently growing hysterical herself; so the faithful Gunki hastily put up their hatbands, seized Sara by the arm, and again began hurrying toward the Rainbow Gate. The Teacup, having again to put her mind on the task of keeping up with them, regained her composure—at least as much of it as she had ever had since her Saucer was broken.
Once inside the little arch, the Gunki stopped and relaxed their hold on Sara's arm. "Now you can cry, Miss," they said, with evident relief.
"But I don't want to, now," said Sara, wonderingly.
"Treatment successful," said the First Gunkus.
"That's what usually happens," explained the Teacup. "At least I've heard my Saucer say that that's what happened to the other little girl. But here, boys, you must attend to these two she's already cried."
The two Gunki stepped up with alacrity, a little ashamed of having to be reminded of their duties.