"That means," said Betty, lifting a face so still and white that it startled the girls, "that he is either dead or worse than dead. I would a thousand times rather he were dead than have him taken prisoner by the Germans."
"But we don't know that he has been captured—"
"That's what missing almost always means," insisted Betty, still in that strange, lifeless voice. "That," she added, as though speaking to herself, "was the column I always read first, because I was most afraid of it. I think," she got up unsteadily, and Mollie ran around to her, "that if you don't mind, I'll go upstairs a little while."
She started for the door while the girls watched her dumbly, not knowing what to do or say. Then suddenly Grace ran after her.
"Betty, darling!" she cried, her own grief forgotten in her pity for her chum, "let me come too, won't you? I don't suppose I'd be any good to you just now, but I'd do my best."
"Let us all come, won't you, Dear?" begged Mollie, while Amy's eyes silently pleaded.
But Betty only shook her head, smiling a pitiful little white smile, at them.
"Not just now—please," she said. "After a while I'll—I'll call you."
They watched her run upstairs and heard her door close quietly, oh, so quietly, behind her.
Left behind, the girls looked at one another with wide frightened eyes.