“They’re gone!” gasped Ellen, leaning miserably against Gloria.
“Yes,” said Gloria, “but my friend will soon be back, and I hope she brings with her some one who can take care of you. Jane was my own dear old nurse.”
Marty stood in the small door like a little corporal. He had a way of appeasing the children, and of doing things capably.
“Glory,” he said, raising his brave young eyes to the girl coming back from the gateway, “I’m awful sorry—about the stones. We didn’t mean you a-tall. It was them other folks.”
“I know,” said Gloria, smiling her forgiveness. “But my aunt didn’t mean to wrong you. And she’s sick—has been sick all day. Oh, Marty, I am so worried I can hardly wait for the car to come back.”
“Then—you’re goin’?” he asked, wistfully.
“Oh, yes, I must. But don’t worry, for you won’t be left alone.”
A tumult within demanded the attention of both Marty and Gloria.
What could be worse than a family of helpless little ones bereft of their mother through the unknown terror of a hospital?
“If father could only know!” wailed Ellen. “I’ll send him word somehow,” promised Gloria.