“Where’s Phronsie? Mrs. Higby, do you know where Miss Phronsie is?” cried old Mr. King, putting his head in the doorway. “Oh, my good gracious!” as his eye caught the group.
Grace hopped off the lounge, and hobbled along on one foot. “Oh, sir! it’s my fault,” she panted; then she fell flat on the floor.
When she came to herself, she was lying on a bed whose white hangings she could dimly see as she opened her eyes. Her foot felt heavy and queer.
“I’m sure I cannot apologize enough to you, Mrs. King,” said a voice that she was quite familiar with. “This school-girl prank is quite unforgivable, I know, but I hope you won’t lay it up against me.”
“We ought not to talk here, Mrs. Atherton,” said Polly gently; then they went out into the other room.
“I don’t think Bella Drysdale is just the right companion for her,” said Mrs. Atherton. “I have thought so for some time. Now I shall do my best to break up the intimacy.”
“Ugh—O Aunt Fay!” shrieked Grace, trying to raise herself in bed. But she only succeeded in falling back heavily with a groan.
“Dear me, that girl has quite upset me,” cried Mrs. Atherton, trembling nervously.
“Do you stay out here, Mrs. Atherton,” said Polly brightly, with a gentle hand putting her on the sofa; then she went into the room where Grace lay, closed the door, and stepped softly up to the bed.
“Now, little girl,” she said, just as if Grace were six years old instead of sixteen, “you must stop crying, and do not move. If you do, your foot may be injured for life.”