The joyous response to welcome, which had plainly trembled at the tips of her being, subsided, and in disappointment she picked up her bag and was starting for a street car, when up the long, broad platform there came hurrying a short-legged little man, with a bloodshot, watery eye. He paused hesitant at a couple of yards, smiled tentatively, and the remnant of an old glove fumbled the brim of a rumpled, semi-bald object that in its distant youth had probably been a silk hat.
The young woman smiled back and held out her hand.
“How do you do, Mr. Huggins.”
“How de do, Miss Katherine,” he stammered.
“Have you seen father anywhere?” she asked anxiously.
“No. Your aunt just sent me word I was to meet you and fetch you home. She couldn’t leave Doctor West.”
“Is father ill?” she cried.
The old cabman fumbled his ancient headgear.
“No—he ain’t—he ain’t exactly sick. He’s just porely. I guess it’s only—only a bad headache.”