So Alexia dashed ahead,—
“‘Hotel Costanzi, Rome, July, 18—.
“‘Dear Alexia,—
“‘You are to be very glad to begin with, at the piece of news I shall tell you right away. And that is, that Phronsie was married this morning to Roslyn May.’—
“Glad! Indeed I’m not!” cried Alexia; “to go and steal such a march on you and me and all her piles of friends, Mrs. Fargo—and such a wedding as we’d have given her.”
“The precious dear,” murmured Mrs. Fargo. “Go on, Alexia.”
Alexia sniffed off two or three disappointed tears, and rushed on,—
“‘It was just this way. You see, Roslyn, poor boy, got it into his head that Grandpapa would separate them again, though of course that was the fever, and because he had suffered so much since he had last seen Phronsie; and although he got better, and it seemed as if he were coming up finely, he brooded so over that idea that Papa-Doctor got quite in despair. And then Father King’—
“Can’t you see Polly’s face when she is going to tell something splendid about Mr. King,” cried Alexia, glancing down the page. “Oh, dear me!—where was I,” going back again, “oh,—‘and then Father King was just royal! He told Phronsie that all he cared for was to make her happy, and that nothing would make him so happy as to have the marriage take place here; and they were just going to tell Roslyn, when Papa-Doctor sent them word that Roslyn was worse. And then those were just dreadful days; for the fever came back, and Phronsie smiled when we looked troubled at her; but she was just like a shadow—so thin and so white. O Alexia, I can’t bear to think of those days! Charlotte Chatterton came from Germany, and she was such a comfort; but we all just clung to each other in despair. Only Phronsie kept saying she knew Roslyn would get well.’
“This is very dreadful,” sniffed Alexia, wiping away the tears furtively. At last she just let them rain down. “I’m a miserable, selfish little pig,” she said, “not to be glad to have her married there.”