'He's not going to die?—oh don't say that!' burst out Frances in her heedless way.
Margaret flung out her hands wildly.
'Oh Bessie,' she cried, 'is that what it really means?'
Bessie looked almost angrily at Frances.
'No, no,' she exclaimed; 'of course not. Frances, why did you say that? Margaret, you are so fanciful. Of course it is not that. It is just that the doctor says his leg is getting stiffer and stiffer, and unless something can be done—some treatment in London first, and afterwards a course of German baths—he is afraid dad must become quite a cripple—quite helpless. And that would be dreadful. It's bad enough when people are rich'—it was sad to hear the old sad 'refrain' of poverty, from lips so young—'but when they're poor! Oh no, I can't face the thoughts of it. What would his life be if he could never get out—he is so active in spite of his lameness—if he had to lie always in his poky little room? How would darling mother bear it?'
And then brave Bessie herself broke down and fled away to the house—they were in the garden—to hide herself till she had recovered some degree of calm.
