“Give me your umbrella, Leila,” said their mother, “and you take mine—or, yes, Daddy’s,” as he hold it out, “that is larger still, and run home together as fast as you can.”
The sisters set off, as they were told, Leila, as the taller, holding the umbrella. But oh, how cross she was! “Too bad’s” and “All your fault’s” were hurled at Chrissie, till the rain and the running and the weight of the rather heavy umbrella, reduced Leila to silence, in spite of Chrissie’s provoking rejoinders.
“My fault indeed! If you had been good-natured for once and lent me your other prayer-book I wouldn’t have been in such a fuss, and then I wouldn’t have forgotten my own umbrella.”
They were both out of breath, and certainly out of temper, when at last—for distances do seem doubled and trebled in such uncomfortable circumstances—they reached Spenser Terrace, and flinging the wet umbrella at Harriet to look after, slowly made their way upstairs to their own room.
Chrissie tore off her hat and coat with her usual haste. They were not very wet after all, but as she was tossing the jacket aside, something hard bumped against her knee.
“There’s something in one of the pockets,” she said, feeling in it as she spoke. Then out she drew her own prayer-book. “Look here, Lell,” she exclaimed, restored to good-humour by her triumph. “It was in here all the time—ever since last Sunday, I daresay.”
“I daresay,” repeated Leila scornfully. “There never was any one so careless as you. You’d better run down and put Aunt Margaret’s treasure back in its place before she misses it.”
Christabel started. She got red, then white. She glanced at the bed, where her hat and gloves were lying; she felt in her frock pocket, she stared at the floor, then in terror and despair she burst out—“Lell, Lell, what shall I do? I’ve lost it.”