“I’m afraid you’re working too hard. I can’t have you losing your appetite and looking like a ghost. Don’t you hear of a cook?”
Barbara shook her head.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to make other sort of arrangement, then. Perhaps Mrs. Clemens will take us all to board until we hear of some help. I’ll try to see her to-day. I don’t mind the meals,—my stomach is proof against anything!—but I can’t have you sick.”
Her father laid a tender hand on her shoulder, and gave her a playful little pat as he left the room. But Barbara felt anything but playful. Her eyes flashed, and her lips set in a hard, bitter line. “My stomach is proof against anything!” Such a stupid joke,—such a cruel bit of pleasantry! There were unshed tears in her voice, as well as her eyes, as she went to the stairway and called up, crossly: “Jack, Cecil—ia!”
There was no answer. Repeated calls brought forth an angry response from Gassy, and a lazy one from Jack.
“Breakfast is all over. If you’re not down in five minutes, there’ll be nothing for you; I’m not going to let my dishes stand all morning!”
Gassy deigned no answer. Dangerously near the time-limit, Jack appeared.
“The wind seems to be from the east this morning,” he remarked casually.
Barbara did not answer.