“You have been having a dreadful time, I know,” said Trixy. “I was so sorry I happened to be out.”
“But you lost precious little time in getting here,” said her grateful companion. “Trixy!” there was a gasp with this. “I feel like a human churn. I am scared to death about Aunt Hattie—and my nerves are just churning.”
“Oh, she’s better. Doctor Daly said so—”
“Better! Was she—sick?”
“Didn’t you know? Of course you didn’t. They have been looking to the ends of the earth for you,” added Trixie. “Why, yes, the doctor was with her most of the afternoon. She had a sort of hysteria. You know she is subject to such spells. I am sure she will be all right.”
“I knew it! I felt it!” sighed Gloria. “Isn’t it hard to know where one’s duty lies? Here I have been with strangers,” she swept her eyes over the forlorn place, “and Aunt Hattie did not know where I was.”
“But they needed you most. Your aunt was not buried in a wilderness like this,” whispered Trixy.
As if she were a fairy queen, the children gazed spellbound at Trixy’s fur coat, her smart feathered turban, and above all they felt her magnetic personality. She was more fortunate than to be just pretty. She was fascinating. The youngsters had by now been accustomed to Gloria, and with their juvenile inconstancy they turned to the worship of the stranger.
“Trixy,” again whispered Gloria, “you know I was coming to—try to do something. I had found out about their father’s loss—”
“Yes, I know, kiddie,” said the taller girl, considerately. “And that was what I suspected. Had I only been in town when they sent the bell ringers out after you I should have guessed here the first shot.”