“In a month,” was the reply, “if you pass the tests; but there, I shall never get my work done if I stand here and talk,” and Helen started for the steps.
“Yes, and I am in a hurry to hear what Dr. Morrow says about Dick’s knee,” returned Nathalie as she followed her friend to the edge of the veranda. “You know he was in this morning to examine it; I am so anxious to hear what he had to say.”
“How did your brother injure his knee?” asked Helen as she paused at the foot of the steps, “I have often wanted to ask.”
“Why, he slipped on the ice just two days after Father’s death,” rejoined Nathalie, her eyes darkening sorrowfully. “The New York physician said it was only sprained ligaments and would be all right soon. But he has been growing worse—it pains him dreadfully sometimes—oh, you don’t know how worried we are—” her voice quavered, “suppose he should be lame for life!”
“Oh, don’t get nervous over it,” advised Helen cheerfully, “but hurry in and see what Dr. Morrow said. To be sure he is only a one-horse-town doctor, but it is claimed that he is an expert surgeon,” and then with a smile and a wave of her hand she hastened toward the gate.
Nathalie watched her friend with brightening eyes as she hurried across the lawn. Somehow the girl’s companionship had revived her drooping spirits; the many little chats they had had about the Pioneers and the tests, coupled with the anticipation of becoming one, had in a measure brightened her life. To be sure, they could never take the place of her friends of the city, but might perhaps dull the longing for the things of the past and the desires that at times threatened to overwhelm her. She realized that she was beginning to take a keener interest in her surroundings, and felt that it was all owing to the Pioneers.
“Nathalie, I am here—in the sitting-room!” called her mother’s voice faintly a few moments later as she heard the girl’s step in the hall. An apprehensive pang seized Nathalie’s heart as she flew to her mother’s side.
“What did the doctor say, Mumsie?” she demanded anxiously. “Will Dick be lame?”
“I hope not, Nathalie, but there will have to be an operation—” her mother’s voice sank to a whisper, “and oh, it will cost us several hundred dollars.” Here Mrs. Page broke down, and burying her face on her daughter’s shoulder wept silently. The girl gently patted the gray-streaked head as she hugged the slender form closely, but with intuitive divination she let her have her cry out, although she was seething with impatience, for she knew it would prove a relief to the mother heart.
“It is all right, I am just a coward.” Mrs. Page choked a moment, then imprinted a wet kiss on the rounded cheek so close to her own as she felt the comfort of her unspoken sympathy. “I am sure Dick will be all right in time—but I am so worried—I have had bad news, too. It does seem as if misfortunes never come singly, as they claim,” she said, thrusting a crumpled sheet of paper into her daughter’s hand.