So Charlotte went off, with her heart warmed, into Phronsie’s room; and Polly left them together, and ran away to comfort old Mr. King, who nowadays would hardly let her out of his sight.
“O Charlotte, how good of you to come!” cried Phronsie, putting up her lips to be kissed, as Charlotte went unsteadily over to the sofa.
Charlotte kneeled down by the sofa, and got tight hold of Phronsie’s hands, mumbling something, she couldn’t have told what, determined she wouldn’t break down.
“Charlotte,” said Phronsie very earnestly, “you are not to feel badly for me, because I almost know that Roslyn will get well. I almost know it, Charlotte.”
Charlotte gave a deep groan, and slid down to the floor, where she sat, hanging to Phronsie’s hands.
“God has kept him for me,” Phronsie went on; “and he has brought us through just everything, Charlotte, and he is going to let Roslyn get well, I know. And now I want you to help to make the others feel so too. Will you, Charlotte?”
But Charlotte couldn’t speak. So Phronsie said, “I am so glad you have come, Charlotte; for you can help Mamsie to see it—that Roslyn will get well. Poor Mamsie is so tired too.”
Charlotte buried her face in Phronsie’s soft wrapper, and her shoulders shook with her efforts not to say anything that she “was to be sorry for afterward.”
“And Polly is worrying,” said Phronsie as a matter of deep confidence, and a troubled look came over her face. “O Charlotte! if you can only help Polly not to worry, it will be just beautiful in you. Will you, Charlotte?”
Again Charlotte could not speak. “Charlotte,” said Phronsie gently, “I wish you would let me see your face.”