“I know. I don’t care whether he is in danger or not. I do care! It isn’t he! It’s—it’s me—it’s I. I can’t tell. I am ashamed. Are all women this way? Oh, I hate to be such a fool!”
Anne sat down. “I don’t quite understand, dear; but, no matter. What is clear is that you are going to have hysterics.”
“I am not going to have hysterics.”
“Then keep quiet, and don’t talk.”
“You made me talk!”
“I did. I am an ass.”
“No—no! Kiss me, aunty. I am so miserable! Couldn’t I get to bed quietly?”
“Yes. Your mother is busy. Come.” And thus, when at last dinner was on the table, and Mrs. Lyndsay asked for her daughter, she was told that Rose had a headache, and then, when she got up to go to her, that she was asleep, which may or may not have been true.
At dinner, between what Carington had told Lyndsay and Jack’s very clear statement, the story came out plainly enough. The boy was praised to his heart’s content, and when Anne had said that this was courage in the right place, and Carington refused to sleep until he had thanked him, Jack felt that, including the bearskin as a part of the day’s blessings, life had no more to give. As for Dick, he settled the genus and the species of the bear, and Ned sat in a corner and meditated, seeing the whole day’s events in pictures, with curious dramatic clearness.
Next morning the doctor arrived, and further reassured them. Mr. Carington was in for a day or two in bed, and then might be out in the hammock.