“I was right,” she murmured. “Your mother is very lovely, dear child; and you are just like her.”
Then followed days of house hunting and furniture selection that were pure joy to the Outdoor Girls. Although the little old lady was too frail to go with them on their shopping trips, each evening they talked over the adventures of the day with her, telling her just what they had bought and submitting long lists, with the price opposite each article, for her inspection.
They found exactly the right kind of house, a little four-room bungalow with a broad, low porch and window boxes in every window. This they furnished gayly with wicker and cretonne and comfortable cushions heaped up everywhere.
When it was all ready—complete even to the maid with white cap and apron—they proudly bore the old lady to her new home, triumphantly exhibiting the results of their work.
The old lady seemed completely carried away with delight. And so they were taken totally unawares when after an inspection of the four rooms the owner of the pretty bungalow dropped into a deep-seated, gayly-cushioned chair and, covering her face with her hands, began to weep silently.
Disconcerted, utterly bewildered, the girls stared at her. But suddenly the little old lady lifted a face to them that was radiant through the tears.
“Don’t be alarmed, my dears,” she said, in her quaint, wistful way. “I’m not ill. I don’t believe joy ever made any one ill, do you?”
“Not ever in the world!” answered the Little Captain, happily.
Days followed during which the girls were almost always with Isabella Weeks. Through all the red tape of legal procedure she insisted on their presence. And though her health seemed to improve daily, owing to good food and good care and lack of worry, the girls noticed that she was restless and uneasy, seeming always to listen for some one who did not come.
“She’s waiting for James Barton,” thought Betty, adding softly: “I hope we hear good news from Allen soon.”