"Yes," she said, "I would prefer a companion. Phyllis, get ready at once, for we haven't much time."
Her voice sounded as if tears were in it, and I sprang up and kissed her before rushing away to my room.
My little bag was packed before mother's, but then she had money arrangements to make which I had not.
Two hours after the receipt of the telegram we were driving down the road to the railway station two miles from our home.
Our journey was of no moment at first starting. We crossed the water without any mishap, and on arriving at Dunkirk bore the Custom-house officers' searching of our handbags with a stoical calmness. What mattered such trifles when our one thought, our one hope lay in the direction of that wayside inn where father lay tossing in delirium?
We spent one night at an hotel, and the next morning, which was Christmas Eve, we were up early to catch the first express to Brives. From Brives to Fleur another train would take us, and the rest of our journey would have to be accomplished by diligence.
It was cold, bitterly cold, and I saw mother's eyes look apprehensively up to the leaden sky. I knew she was fearing a heavy fall of snow which might interrupt our journey.
We reached Fleur at three o'clock in the afternoon, and took the diligence that was awaiting the train. Then what mother feared took place. Snow began to fall—heavy snow, and the horses in the diligence began to labour after only one hour's storm. Mother's face grew paler and paler. I did not dare to look at her, or to think what we should do if the snow prevented us getting much farther. And father! what would father do! After two hours' weary drive we sighted the first stopping place.
"There is the inn!" said a portly fellow-traveller. "And a good thing, too, that we'll have a roof over our heads, for there will be no driving farther for some days to come."
"We must make a jovial Christmas party by ourselves," said another old gentleman, gathering all his belongings together in preparation for getting out.