"And there never was a place where good luck was more needed, nor where people were more grateful for hearing that it had come to them, than in the little grey house to-day," added Rob, as she wound her arm around her friend's waist, and bore her away to her room.
"Oh, Rob," said Frances, "and oh, Wythie," she added, turning back to include Wythie in the caress she gave Rob, "you know how glad I am of what that man told you! It's well you do, for I can't begin to tell you how glad I am. Isn't it perfectly blessed?"
"It's the beginning of the end of our troubles, that's all it is, Francie," said Rob. "This isn't the little grey house to-night; it's Pandora's box, with everything bad flying out, and only hope left."
CHAPTER TWELVE
ITS TRAGIC SIDE
"Maimie Flinders is sick," said Prue, coming in from school the next noon, and hastening to thrust first one foot and then the other into warmth issuing from the open oven-door, for the day was cold. "I met Mr. Flinders, and he said 'Maimie was pretty miserable, and they was worried about her.'" Prue pulled down the corners of her mouth, imitating Farmer Flinders's drawl as she spoke.
"I must go see her," said Rob. "Poor little Pollykins! She's a misfit in that household—a dear, quaint little soul! None but a very nice child could admire me the way that mite does. I think I owe her a cheering visit. Look out, Prudy; let me get the pudding out."
After dinner Rob girded herself in her warm, ex-parlor-curtains coat, and having selected from her accumulation of the Rutherfords' contributions to her entertainments some things that she thought would amuse the sick child, started out to make a call which was not alluring for many reasons.
Farmer Flinders lived in a yellowish-brown house from which the green blinds that adorned it in summer had been removed to save them unnecessary wear during the winter. It was square and bare, and Rob felt its bleakness anew as she entered the gate, passing the straggling stalks which in summer developed into a lilac and syringa bush, and pulled the octagonal glass door-bell, remembering the solitary and sensitive child who was trying to grow into a woman in these surroundings.