The thoughtless speech stung, and Betty turned away to hide the hurt in her eyes.
"Perhaps you're right," she said quietly. "Nothing very terrible has happened to me yet, personally. But perhaps you forget that we girls always share each other's troubles—"
But Mollie would not let her finish. She was down on her knees beside her chum, penitent arms about her shoulders and was pouring out an apology.
"I ought to be tarred and feathered," she cried breathlessly. "I don't know what made me say such a thing, Honey."
"I know," said Betty gently, "and that's why it didn't go very deep—what you said."
"You're a darling!" cried Mollie. She gave the Little Captain another bear's hug, then sat down in the sand again with her arms clasped about her knees. "It's this everlasting uncertainty and the feeling of helplessness that gets on one's nerves so. I always did hate to wait for anything—especially with my imagination."
"What's that got to do with it?" asked Amy, surprised.
"Why, it—the imagination, I mean—just goes running around in circles, thinking up all the horrible things that might have happened until I almost go crazy. If I only didn't have to think!"
"You never used to have any trouble that way," said Grace, with a weak attempt at a joke that ended in dismal failure.
"Isn't that the boy with the mail?" asked Betty after a minute, as the rumble of an antiquated vehicle and a masculine voice addressing in no uncertain tones a pair of invisible mules came to their ears. "Perhaps he's bringing good news to us. Come on, we'll meet him half way."