The little girl made no reply, but simply took the parcel in her basket. Then the clerk espied Miette.
“Oh, hello, Frenchy,” she exclaimed, while Miette’s cheeks flamed as the people around stared at her. “Sportin’ now?”
Miette did not reply, but turned and made her way to where Mrs. White and Dorothy waited in a secluded corner.
“Marie is not here,” she told them. “She is sick—gone away.”
“Come,” directed Mrs. White, anxious to get out of the ill-ventilated basement. “We can talk about it upstairs.”
Up in the marble lined arcade Miette told what she had learned. She was “broken hearted.” She did so want to find Marie.
“Well, it seems we must be disappointed in something,” Mrs. White told her, “all our other business has been so satisfactory, we cannot expect everything to go along as if some magic clock ticked out our time in New York.”
But Miette could not be cheered—she was so sorry to know that Marie was sick, then to think she had no time to go to her home—Mrs. White insisted she must do some shopping and then leave on the five o’clock train.
“Couldn’t we go while you shop,” suggested Miette.
“No, indeed, my dear,” replied Mrs. White. “I could not think of trusting you two children in New York alone.”