The door creaked softly and Mrs. Flynn came in with a cup of tea in her hand.
"Take a drop of tea, dearie, do," she whispered soothingly, bending over Mrs. Randall's chair; "it'll put heart into ye."
Mrs. Randall shook her head impatiently.
"Not now, Mrs. Flynn; I couldn't touch anything now, it would choke me. Perhaps by and by——"
Mrs. Flynn turned away with a sigh, and went back to the kitchen, beckoning to Betty to follow her.
"Can't you do nothin' to cheer her up a bit, darlin'," she whispered, when Betty joined her in the kitchen. "Not a mouthful of anything has she touched this whole blessed day, and it's awful to see her sittin' lookin' like that, her that's just off a sick bed too."
"She's thinking about Jack," said Betty sadly; "she can't eat till she knows; I couldn't eat either, Mrs. Flynn."
Mrs. Flynn sighed again, and set down the teacup.
"Well, you'll hear pretty soon now, I guess," she said, with an air of resignation, "and I've got some nice strong chicken soup on the stove. A cup of that'll do yez both good by and by."
"Oh, Mrs. Flynn," whispered Betty, drawing close to the kind-hearted Irish-woman, "I'm so frightened. I don't know why, but I am. You don't think, do you, that anything dreadful is going to happen?"