So half an hour passed and supposedly the three ranch girls were sound asleep, though in reality the three of them were still wide awake.
Jean and Olive were both worrying over Frieda, not yet understanding the real facts of her escape, and Frieda was longing with all her might for some one to sympathize with her and help her in her scrape, some one who would let her cry herself out.
By and by Olive crept softly from her room to Jean’s bedside. “Jean, has Frieda explained things to you?” she whispered.
Jean sighed. “She said they were hungry, she and Mollie and two boys, and that they went into the pantry and had something to eat, but she didn’t say why they stayed in the back hall afterwards. They couldn’t have kept on eating pickles and cheese for over an hour.” And both girls giggled softly in spite of their worry, for was it not like little greedy baby Frieda to have required extra food just as she was constantly doing on their long trip through the Yellowstone the summer before?
“Well, it all sounds pretty simple, Jean,” Olive comforted, “and I don’t think Miss Winthrop will be very angry when she hears that the pantry was the difficulty, for she knows how good the housekeeper is to all the little girls.”
“It isn’t the pantry that worries me; it’s the back hall.” Jean’s voice became low and impressive, “What do you suppose that Frieda Ralston could have to talk about to a—boy?”
A stifled sob at this moment shook the bed-clothes and both older girls started, guiltily. Reaching over, Olive patted the outside of the blanket.
“Were you talking to the boy, Frieda?” she inquired in a sterner manner than was usual to her, “or were all four of you just sitting around having a jolly time together?” Now that Frieda’s sobs assured the other two girls that she was awake, they were glad enough to be able to go on with her cross-examination.
“I was talking to the boy all by myself,” Frieda’s reply was unhesitating though somewhat choked. “Mollie and the other boy were sitting on a higher step and the servants were around, but no one told us how late it was.”
“Well, what were you talking about that you found so interesting that you could not hear the clock strike twelve, or the ‘Home, Sweet Home’ waltz, or the good-byes being said?” Jean demanded fiercely.