“Oh, Tony is all right!” in the same strained key as before. “He never lets anything but himself drop.”
A rustle and swift step sounded above stairs. Someone ran down. It was Hetty. Her white wrapper was begirt with a ribbon loosely knotted; her rust-brown hair was breaking from constraint and tumbling upon her shoulders.
March’s first pained thought was: “She knew I would be in, yet did not mean to see me again to-night!”
A second glance at the colorless face and wild eyes awakened unselfish concern.
“What is the matter? Who is hurt?” she queried anxiously. Hester’s reply was a shriek of laughter.
“Nothing! Nobody! Only Tony has broken his neck again, and Mr. Gilchrist did not know that it is an hourly occurrence in our family life, so he insisted upon taking me upstairs himself.”
“Mr. Gilchrist is very kind!” Hetty’s tone was deadly mechanical; in speaking she looked at nobody. “I sent Homer down when I heard you coming. I am sorry he was not in time.”
May had joined the group.
“I hope,” she said in her cheery way, “that none of the rest of your household have come to grief to-day?”
Hetty turned to her with eyes that questioned silently—almost defiantly.