"But—Uncle," said Mary as he hurried with her through the hall, "I thought you were going to see them off."
"I did think of doing so, but I have changed my mind."
"No, Uncle, you must not stay just for me. Please go with them—please! But come back soon."
"I shall be back by three o'clock, little one," and he was gone.
Bravely the little girl tried to smile as she pressed her face close to the windowpane and threw a last kiss to her mother before she stepped into the carriage. Her father and uncle, each holding a baby, made them wave and kiss their tiny hands to her, and then passed them in to Mrs. Selwyn and Aunt Mandy. Another moment, and the door closed after the two men. Mary knelt on the sill with Sister Julia's strong arm to support her, and strained her eyes for the very last glimpse of the handkerchief fluttering from the carriage window. Then she sank upon the cushions, her frail little form shaking with the sobs she could no longer control.
Just before three o'clock, the Doctor returned. In spite of his own sadness, he had tried on his way home to remember the amusing things which he had seen at the docks so that he would have something cheerful to tell Mary. He made a special effort to whistle a lively tune as he mounted the stairs; but at the door of her room, it died on his lips.
"Why—why—" he was at the bedside in three strides.
"O Uncle! I thought you would never come!"
"But, dear, I stayed only long enough to see the steamer underway, as I thought you wished me to do. I did not even stop at my office on the way home. What is it? Are you in pain?"
"My head, Uncle."