“Come, Alexia,” said Phronsie, holding out her hand; and Mrs. Dodge, grumbling all the way, went up the stairs after her.
“And just to think,” she said, when they reached the top,—“wait a minute, Phronsie,—how it’s all over town about her getting in here so; and you’re giving up your time, and Polly’s too, to take care of her, I”—
“Hush!” warned Phronsie, picking Alexia’s sleeve, and pointing to the door of the little room.
“Ugh!—oh, goodness me! I thought she was in the west wing,” gasped Alexia, in a stage whisper. “Well, I don’t believe she heard anything.”
“Please remember Alexia, to tell her amusing things, for Grace has been so sad,” said Phronsie, softly drawing Alexia into the room. There was no one in the little white bed.
Out in the dressing-room they found her, crying bitterly, and trying to pull her clothes out of her trunk. “I’m going home,” she exclaimed passionately between her sobs.
“O Grace!” cried Phronsie, hurrying forward to lay a restraining hand upon her.
“Oh, me—oh, my!” exclaimed Alexia, backing up for support against the door.
“Please call Mrs. Higby, Alexia,” said Phronsie. And Alexia, glad to do something, fled with long steps, and presently brought Mrs. Higby, who, without any more ado, just picked up Grace, with a “Poor lamb, there, there, don’t cry!” and deposited her on the little white bed again, where she shook with the passionate declarations that she was going home, and no one should stop her.
Mrs. Higby examined critically the bandaged foot. “Lucky if she hain’t hurt it,” and she drew a long breath, “I don’t b’lieve she did, Miss Phronsie.”