How strangely depressing was the house now with the gloom of sickness upon it! The awful uncertainty of an accident, what the result might be, how serious or trifling—every possibility seemed weighted with terrible consequences.
Dorothy fell upon her knees beside her bed. Her heart was very full, everything seemed dark and gloomy now. All the difficulties of yesterday were engulfed in that one sorrow—Ned's accident. Dorothy seemed unable to pray, and in her sadness came the thought of her own unwilling part in the little tragedy.
"If only I had told Tom—asked him not to! But how could I do that?" she argued against argument. "What would he think of Ned? Of me?"
A step in the hall roused her from her reverie. There was a slight tap on the door, then Tavia entered. Although it was late she was still entirely dressed, and her face showed she had been crying.
"Dorothy," she said, her voice trembling and the tears welling into her eyes, "I must—go home!"
"Why?" asked Dorothy, surprised and startled.
"Dad says so. I must go first thing in the morning."
"Your letter?"
"Has anything happened?"