“The Signorina Parreesh is more bad of the throat,” went on Miss Julianna; “I went in; she say, ‘How glad to die, I would be!’ also you have the letter—here—”
I took the letter with a good deal of hope that trickled off into nothing as I saw dear Miss Sheila’s writing. It had been over a week since I had heard from home, and it seemed much longer than it was. Of course I was glad to hear from Miss Sheila, but I needed a letter from Mother, all full of an account of the things the twins had done, and who was calling on Roberta that night, and who was sick, and how many appendixes Daddy had taken out, and what they’d had for dinner, and how the geraniums were doing, and how Marshal Foch—who is our canary—was almost through molting.
That was what I needed and so I had to swallow hard several times before I opened Miss Sheila’s letter—I had thought surely the letter was from Mother—and after I opened it I swallowed harder, for the twins had contracted diphtheria—as they did everything, together—and Miss Sheila said that Mother wouldn’t be able to write for some time. Mother had telegraphed her and asked her to write me and to keep me informed.
Well, after I stood around a minute looking down at the page the way you do when it holds something you’d rather not see, I went along the corridor to my room, and in there, I sat down in the cold, and wondered whether the twins were very sick, and then I thought of the times I’d been cross to them, and then I wondered whether Mother could get it—and I had to swallow awfully hard over that, and then—I thought of Father. And I got up very quickly and squared my shoulders, and took off my coat, and put it over a chair to dry, and hung my hat on the bed post, and went off down the corridor to Leslie’s room, for Father had no use for people who are not sports. It helped me to remember that.
Leslie was sitting up with her feet in a tub of hot water, and she had on a chin strap that tied on top of her head in a funny little bow, and she was crying. I was sorry for her, and sorrier for myself, and we were both miserable, but she looked funny. I saw it even then.
“Always—wear this when—I’m alone,” she said thickly and in jerks. (She was talking about the rubber strap that was jacking up her chin.) “Mother—has a double—chin and—the blood just drains from my heart when I look—every time I look at her!”
“I wouldn’t worry about it to-day,” I advised. Then I asked her whether I could get her anything. She shook her head, and then she spoke.
“Viola told Miss Meek everything I’d ever told her,” she said, “all about Ben Forbes saying I was idle, and a p-parisite. Don’t you think that was mean?”
I did. And I said so.
She sniffed, and then suddenly, she hid her face in her arm and began to cry hard.