“My dear Amy!”
“Now, Arthur, you can laugh,” said his sister, coming down the stairs, the embroidered ruffles of her white cambric skirt fluttering around her slender ankles in pink silk stockings, and her little feet thrust into French-heeled slippers, one of which had an enormous bow and buckle, the other nothing at all. “You may laugh,” said Anna Carroll, in a sweet, challenging voice, “but why is it so unlikely? Eddy Carroll has had everything but shooting happen to him.”
“Yes, he has been everything except shot,” moaned Mrs. Carroll.
“My dearest dear, don't worry over such a thing as that!”
“But, Arthur,” pleaded Mrs. Carroll, “what else is there left for us to worry about?”
Carroll's mouth twitched a little, but he looked and spoke quite gravely. “Well,” he said, “I am going now, and I shall find the boy and bring him home safe and sound, and— Amy, darling, have you eaten anything?”
“Oh, Arthur,” cried his wife, reproachfully, “do you think I could eat when Eddy did not come home to dinner, and always something dreadful has happened other times when he has not come? Eddy has never stayed away just for mischief, and then come home as good as ever. Something has always happened which has been the reason.”
“Well, perhaps he has stayed away for mischief alone, and that is what has happened now instead of the shooting,” said Carroll.
“Arthur, if—if he has, you surely will not—”
“Arthur, you will not punish that boy if he does come home again safe and sound?” cried his sister.