“I’m trying to think of the future,” she answered. “That’s why I’m unhappy.”
“Could any one have the heart to scold you?” asked the spectacled student.
She did not reply, but her heart remained decidedly unquiet and troubled, and she desired earnestly to make the confession and take the medicine, whatever it was to be. At least she would have something interesting to tell them: Felicia Rivers and that queer thing about Tweedledum.
However, like half the world, Nancy was very apt to magnify her troubles. Nothing could exceed her misery when she hastened up High Street half an hour later with her escort of eight. At the hotel she found that her friends had not returned. Why should she have imagined that she was the only person who had been caught in the rain that afternoon? After eight friendly handshakes and a sad little smile for eight at once, she hurried to her room. Now that they had not missed her, it would be much easier to confess her sins. At last they burst into the apartment as bedraggled and damp as she herself had been, but bearing a bit of information which the newsboys had been calling out for some time in the street below, although Nancy had been too occupied to notice what they were saying.
“Nancy, what do you think has happened?” cried Billie, rushing to her friend, without so much as inquiring about the two exciting hours which had intervened between this and their last meeting. “Little Arthur, the Duke of Kilkenty’s youngest son—do you remember, Nancy—our little Arthur,—has been kidnapped? Now, what do you think of that for a thrilling piece of news?”
“But who kidnapped him?” demanded Nancy childishly.
“How under the sun do we know?” answered Billie.
“I suppose the Duke has lots of enemies. He is a very cruel man,” observed Mary.
“Where’s Feargus?” asked Nancy suddenly.
“He’s below. We saw him as we came in, reading the paper. But where have you been, you naughty Nancy-Bell?”