Mrs. Fargo, just commencing to read the heading of her own letter, heard a funny little sound; and glancing up, saw Alexia making every effort to speak, her face working dreadfully. The letter had fallen from her hands to the floor.
“Oh! what is it?” cried poor Mrs. Fargo, feeling that this day must be bewitched, and dreading she knew not what; and she jumped up, too frightened now to cry, and ran to Polly’s toilet-table for salts.
“Read—read—your letter!” gasped Alexia.
“Oh, I can’t, if it’s bad news!” cried Mrs. Fargo, shrinking and trembling. “Where are they—oh, here!” She brought the bottle of salts, and held it to Alexia’s nose.
“Phronsie Pepper is married!” cried Alexia, twitching away her head.
“Phronsie Pepper is married?” repeated Mrs. Fargo blankly.
“The very day that Polly wrote,” declared Alexia tragically; then she made a dive for her letter on the floor.
“Read it, Alexia,” begged Mrs. Fargo, “for I can’t;” and she sank down on the sofa, and wound her arms around Mrs. Dodge.
“And I’m sure I want to hold on to somebody too,” declared Alexia. “Oh, dear me, Mrs. Fargo, to think you and I won’t ever see Phronsie married! Oh, dear, dear!” and the tears of vexation sprang to her eyes. “And it will almost kill Polly not to have the wedding here—and all the hosts and hosts of friends Phronsie Pepper has, and—what shall we do?”
“We can’t do anything,” breathed Mrs. Fargo; “it’s already done—do read it all,” she added faintly.