"Ben, Ben! Does any one know where he is?" It was Aunty Whitney, whose gentle voice was never heard on such a key, and she was actually running down the hall, her pretty face all streaked with tears. "Oh, Ben, there isn't a moment to lose. Father wants you to go with him to Jasper. I can't tell you what for."
"I know," said Ben, quietly, while Polly stuffed her fingers into her mouth to keep from screaming.
Mrs. Whitney didn't stop to express any surprise, but her face looked relieved that he had heard the news.
"And you must catch the next train," she hurried on, her voice breaking; "oh, Ben, you must."
"I'm ready," cried Ben. He gave Polly one kiss, then pulled her arms away from his neck.
"Your mother says you can go, and she is getting your things together."
"I'll—I'll help put them up," said Polly, blindly staggering off after him as he rushed down the hall.
"No, no, Polly," cried Mrs. Whitney, "your mother said you must stay with me,—and Polly, I need you so badly." She opened her arms and Polly ran into them, and though there wasn't very much comforting done, it was good to be together.
And Thomas whirled up to the door, and Mr. King and Ben and Mr. King's valet got into the carriage, into which portmanteaus were thrown, and away the horses sprang in a mad rush to make the train. And it was all done in such bewildering haste that the group in the hall scarcely knew or understood anything until the big front door shut with a clang, and they were alone. And nothing to tell of it all but that dreadful yellow telegram lying on Mr. King's writing-table just where it had been thrown.
"Fire at school dormitory early this morning. Your son Jasper hurt. Come at once.
"Jacob A. Presbrey."