now that she has come out of the room, she is doing her utmost to make herself ill.”
“Don’t say any more!” cried Marjorie. “I will come downstairs.” Her face was white as death.
The three girls entered the dining room. Leslie’s persuasions, joined, perhaps, to some of Lettie’s tarter remarks, induced Marjorie to take a little food; but the oppression and solemnity of the scene seemed to have got into the air.
Presently the sound of wheels, muffled as they drove over the straw, was distinctly heard, and then two doctors’ broughams drew up at the door. Dr. Ericson got out of his and an elderly, benevolent-looking man out of the other. They both entered the house.
“What shall I do?” cried Marjorie. “I cannot stand this.”
“Oh, I feel somehow it will be all right; and remember we have prayed about it,” said Leslie.
She went up to Marjorie.
“Come back to the boudoir,” she said. “You are nearer to her there.”
“Well, I shall stay here,” said Lettie. “I don’t know what there is about you, Leslie, and about Marjorie; but the pair of you make me feel quite nervous. We are doing all we can—that is, Aunt Helen is; and really I do think that one ought to try to retain a little strength of mind. If the very worst of all had happened, you could not be going on more terribly than you are at present, Marjorie.”
“I cannot help feeling, if that is what you mean,” said Marjorie. She went upstairs, and Leslie followed her. The noise of people walking overhead was heard.