“We are all troubled about your sister,” said Angela.
“Oh, I’m not troubled,” said Molly.
“Nor I,” said Ethel.
But Ethel was quick to read disapproval in Angela’s soft eyes.
“I suppose we ought to be,” she said abruptly. “Do you think there is any danger?”
She opened her eyes wide as she spoke.
“I hope not; but, of course, she ought to be found. Then there is your mother—the great thing is to keep your mother from fretting.”
“We have managed that, for Marcia, old Marcia—I mean dear Marcia,—is so clever about mother.”
“She is clever about everything. I wonder if you know what a very remarkable sister you have got.” Marcia rose by leaps and bounds in both the girls’ estimation. If she was remarkable, and if Angela, beautiful, bewitching Angela, said so, then indeed there must be something to be proud of, even in old Marcia. Ethel remembered how she had nicknamed her Miss Mule Selfish, and a nervous desire to giggle took possession of her, but she suppressed it.
“I wish I could tell you,” said Angela, “all that Marcia has been to me; how she has helped me. And then she is such a wonderful teacher. My aunt, Mrs Silchester, never ceases to lament her having left the school at Frankfort, I understand that she came here to help you girls.”