“She was going to throw herself out of the window,” was the answer. “I stopped her, and sent Arthurs for you. Oh, we can never hold up our heads again!”
Miss Mary writhed and fought for breath. Baxter found a shawl which he threw over her shoulders.
“Nonsense!” said he. “That isn't like Mary;” but his face worked when he said it.
“You wouldn't believe about Aggie, John. Perhaps you will now!” said Miss Elizabeth. “I saw her do it, and she's cut her throat too!”
“She hasn't,” I said. “It's only her hand.”
Miss Mary suddenly broke from us with an indescribable grunt, flew, rather than ran, to her sister's bed, and there shook her as one furious schoolgirl would shake another.
“No such thing,” she croaked. “How dare you think so, you wicked little fool?”
“Get into bed, Mary,” said Baxter. “You'll catch a chill.”
She obeyed, but sat up with the grey shawl round her lean shoulders, glaring at her sister. “I'm better now,” she panted. “Arthurs let me sit out too long. Where's Arthurs? The kettle.”
“Never mind Arthurs,” said Baxter. “You get the kettle.” I hastened to bring it from the side table. “Now, Mary, as God sees you, tell me what you've done.”