"Yes, I know," the man said, gravely.
Elsie looked up in his face questioningly. It was very grave. "Is he—is he—dead?" she gasped.
"Not as far as I know," the man replied; "and he did go into the hospital right enough; but he was as near dead as possible when your mother found him there. I don't think it's certain now whether he'll recover."
"Mother found him!" Elsie cried. "Then—then she knows where we are?"
"Yes, she knows," the man replied.
Elsie involuntarily drew a long sigh of relief. It was only afterwards that she began to be worried with doubts as to what her mother would say or do. In that first moment her first instinct was that being found by her mother was the end of all trouble, and that was, no doubt, a true and natural instinct.
But the after feeling of fear and doubt soon came to cloud Elsie's joy at what seemed such good news. How glad she would be once more to be back in the clean, sweet cottage on her native moor. She had thought that life hard, and so wanted to be a little lady, but it was a perfect paradise compared with her present life; and as for care, which is the greatest enemy to happiness that we can have, she had not known what it meant before she ran away. Food and clothes, and warm, comfortable shelter, were all hers without a thought on her part, and yet she had been so discontented and cross and disagreeable to everybody because she had not dainty food and nothing to do. But she had found out what it felt like to be without a home or a friend, with coarse food, and nothing but harsh words; and she had been continually told that that was far more than she deserved, and was given to her only out of charity, for which she ought to be most grateful.
If only Mrs. MacDougall would let her go home and things be the same as before, she would never be discontented or ungrateful any more, but she could hardly believe that she would ever get back again to that old happy life.
And Duncan? He might die! Then it would never be the same again. Dear little Duncan, who did not want to come away, and had always been contented, but would not forsake his sister. But for her he would be well and happy now, whereas everything was dreadful and wretched. It was quite certain it could never come right. If only she had known beforehand? It seemed so easy and so nice. Was it her fault that things had turned out so different? Was she to blame for not knowing?
In this way she tried to find some excuse and consolation where there was indeed little enough, falling back on the idle excuses people so frequently make. How many people ask "Was it my fault that I did not know?" when that was not at all where the fault lay.