"I could comfort mother," repeated Mollie, in a flat tone, as though she were repeating a lesson.
"But she said not to come," suggested Grace. "She said she was doing everything possible—"
"I know," interrupted Mollie, wearily. "Of course she would say not to come. And I suppose," she added, dabbing impatiently at her eyes, "all I'd do would be to weep anyway, and make things about ten times worse."
"Do you want your lunch inside or out here?" Mrs. Ford asked from the doorway and the girls jumped to their feet.
"Here we are, letting you do all the work again," cried Betty self-reproachfully. "I guess we'd rather have it out here, but we'll bring it out ourselves. Please go over there, get into the swing, and don't stir until we say you may." Betty had a pretty manner, half of deference, half of camaraderie, with older people that made them love her. Mrs. Ford patted her cheek with a little smile and obeyed her command while the three girls ran into the kitchen to bring out the sandwiches and cake that she had already prepared.
And all the time Mollie sat motionless, staring out over the ocean, apparently unconscious of everything that was going on around her.
"Little Dodo and Paul," she said over and over to herself. "What has happened to them? Oh, I must go home, I must!"
"Come to your lunch," called Betty.
After lunch Mollie began to take a less gloomy view of the situation and hope, which in youth can never long be forced into the background, began to revive.
"In the first place," Betty argued, as she began to clear away the dishes and Amy rose to help her, "it couldn't have been an accident, or your mother would have read about it in the papers. The children are old enough to tell their names and where they live."