"Oh, dear, dear!" Alexia began to whimper, feeling all around the floor with terror-stricken fingers. "Aunt, where are you? Oh, she's been struck and she's dead, I know she is! Polly Pepper," she screamed, tumbling out of the closet to rush to the head of the stairs, "come up and help me find Aunt."
"Alexia!" Miss Rhys, concluding not to be left alone in the closet when the two girls ran downstairs, had hurried out after them, and now appeared from the hall corner where she had crouched. "Don't scream so."
"Oh, Aunt!" cried Alexia, throwing her arms around her, "you haven't been struck, have you? Oh, do say you haven't."
"Why, of course not; don't you see I'm here?" said Miss Rhys. "There, child, take care, you're mussing my lace collar," and she edged off from the nervous fingers. "We'll go downstairs, I think, and stay with Mrs. Cummings."
"If you're really sure you are not struck," said Alexia, eying her askance, as if in considerable doubt, "we'll go; and Polly Pepper is there and that tiresome old Mr. Filbert."
"If Polly is there, she must stay to luncheon," said Miss Rhys, gathering up her skirts and preparing to descend the stairs.
"Oh, how fine!" exclaimed Alexia, hopping after, losing sight of the thunderstorm in the delight of having Polly Pepper to herself for so many hours. "Oh, Aunt, what's that tagging after you?"—catching sight of the piece of embroidery dangling from her aunt's long figure.
"I see nothing," said Miss Rhys, turning around with her head over her shoulder.
"Well, do stand still, Aunt," cried Alexia, "a minute."
"What is it?" Miss Rhys kept saying, trying to see for herself.