“Helen and Anna went out to ask after Mrs. Frost and Barrington. And the boys—but I think you know it—have gone with Sir John to Evesham. You wouldn’t call the house quiet, John, if you could hear the row going on in the nursery.”
He smiled a little. “Charley’s a dreadful Turk: none of us elder ones were ever half as bad. Where’s the mother?”
“Half-an-hour ago she was shut up with some visitors in the drawing-room. It’s those Miss Clutterbucks, John: they always stay long enough to hold a county meeting.”
“Is Mrs. Frost worse—that the girls have gone to ask after her?” he resumed.
“I think so. Harry said Dr. Frost shook his head about her, when they saw him this morning.”
“She’ll never be strong,” remarked John. “And perhaps the bother of the school is too much for her.”
“Hall takes a good deal of that, you know.”
“But Hall cannot take the responsibility; the true care of the school. That must lie on Mrs. Frost.”
What a beautiful sky it was! The sun was nearing the horizon; small clouds, gold and red and purple, lay in the west, line above line. John Whitney sat gazing in silence. There was nothing he liked so much as looking at these beautiful sunsets.
“Go and play for me, will you, Johnny?”