“And she never even took the trouble to tell me,” she sobbed brokenly. “She has probably forgotten that I am even going to Wellington.”
It was a difficult moment for Molly and Judy. Would it be more tactful to slip out of the room or to try and comfort Nance? After all, she had had very little sympathy in her life, and sympathy was what she craved and love, too, Molly felt sure of this, and with an instinct stronger than reason, she slipped down beside her friend on the couch and put her arms around her.
“Darling, sweetest Nance,” she cried, “I am sure the message will come. Perhaps she’ll telegraph, and they will telephone from the village. Judy and I love you so dearly, it breaks our hearts to see you cry like this. Doesn’t it, Judy?”
“Indeed, it does,” answered Judy, who was kneeling at the side of the couch with her cheek against Nance’s hand.
It was a comfort to Nance to realize that she had gained the friendship and affection of these two loving, warm-hearted girls. Never in her life had she met any girls like them, and presently the bitterness in her heart began to melt away.
“Perhaps she will telegraph,” she said, drying her eyes. “It was silly of me to take on so, but, you see, I had a little shock—I’m all right now. You’re dears, both of you.”
Judy went into her own room and returned in a moment with a large bottle of German cologne. Filling the stationary wash basin with cold water she poured in a liberal quantity of the cologne.
“Now, dearest Nance,” she said, “bathe your face in that, and then powder with Molly’s pink rice powder, and all will be as if it never had been,” she added, smiling.
The others smiled, too. Somehow, Nance’s outburst had done her more good than harm. For the first time in her life she had been coddled and sympathized with and petted. It was almost worth while to have suffered to have gained such rewards. After all, there were some pleasant things in life. For instance, the note which had come to her that afternoon from young Andy McLean, son of Dr. McLean, the college physician. To think that she, “the little gray mouse,” as her father had often called her, had inspired any one with a desire to see her again. It was almost impossible to believe, but there was the young Scotchman’s note to refute all contrary arguments.
“Dear Miss Oldham,” it said, in a good, round handwriting, “I have been wanting so much to see you again since our jolly day at Exmoor. I am bringing some fellows over on Saturday to supper at my father’s. If you should happen to be in about four o’clock, may I call? How about a walk before supper? I can’t tell you how disappointed I’ll be if you have another engagement.