All day Frances' thoughts kept going back to the unfortunate quarrel, and even when she was not thinking about it she was not happy. The storm clouds hung low and made the atmosphere heavy.
At twilight she slipped downstairs and peeped into the study where Dick had just lit the lamp and Peterkin lay stretched at his ease before the bright fire. She stole in and sat beside him on the rug and stroked him softly. He purred gently, looking up in her face with so much wisdom in his yellow eyes she felt like telling him about the trouble.
Presently the Spectacle Man came with the evening paper, and was surprised and pleased to see her.
"Mr. Clark," she began, "I have a broken bridge to mend."
"Is that so? I hope it will not give you much trouble."
Frances sighed and put her face down on Peterkin's soft coat for a moment. "I am afraid it will," she said, and then she told the story.
The Spectacle Man listened gravely. "I don't believe the bridge is really broken," he said; "it is only invisible beneath the clouds of anger and unkindness."
Frances drew a very deep breath. "Then what can I do?" she asked.
"How was it in the story?"
"But the young man had a fairy to help him.