“What’s up?” he demanded curiously, for Geraldine’s face was serious.
Geraldine did not answer at once, but led the way across the lawn to a little rustic summer-house, covered with blooming honeysuckle.
“I didn’t want to talk where any one could hear,” she explained. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you. I’m worried about Gretel.”
“Worried about Gretel,” repeated Jerry, incredulously. “Why, there isn’t anything the matter with her, is there? She looks all right to me.”
“Oh, I don’t mean that she’s ill, or anything like that,” said Geraldine. “I know she’s in some trouble, and she won’t tell me what it is. It began yesterday afternoon, when she went to New London with Mrs. Chester.”
“Why don’t you ask her what the matter is?” Jerry inquired, practically. “I thought you two always told each other everything.”
Geraldine reddened.
“We always have,” she said; “at least, I always tell her everything, and I thought she told me, but she won’t tell me about this. I’m afraid she’s very unhappy.”
“What makes you think so?” asked Jerry, his own face sobering, for he was almost as devoted to Gretel as his sister.
“Well,” said Geraldine, slowly, “it’s all rather queer, and I don’t understand it. She was all right till yesterday afternoon. She went shopping with Mrs. Chester, and she has been different ever since. She cried dreadfully, and she scarcely ate any dinner, and once in the night I woke up and heard her tossing and moaning in her sleep. I saw her wiping her eyes in church this morning, and now she’s gone up to her room to write letters. She’s trying awfully hard to be cheerful, and act as if nothing had happened, but she can’t deceive me.”