Poor Dorothy felt dreadfully uncomfortable and crestfallen. She had been alone all day, and it did seem such a little thing to go to the post with Helen Jones, who knew all about her costume, and quite agreed with her that it was a 'horrid shame' for people to be so careless as to have fires, when they had the charge of other people's things.
Louisa had scolded her, and been very cross when she came in, but Dorothy really saw no reason why it mattered very much what Miss Addiscombe thought. It wasn't like mother to mind anything like that so much.
Dick came in about half an hour later. He had been home to dinner, and had gone out again to a cricket match.
"Mother has gone to bed," said Dorothy rather importantly. "She doesn't want to be disturbed, and you are not to go to her. She's got a headache, and father isn't coming home."
Dick's Strange Silence
Dick looked at her very hard, and without speaking went straight upstairs, listened a little, and opened his mother's door. "He is a tiresome boy!" thought Dorothy; "now mother will think I never told him."
Louisa brought in a poached egg, and some baked apples as he came down again.
"Cook says it's so late, you had better make it your supper, sir," she said.
"Mother wants a hot-water bottle," answered Dick; "she's as cold as ice. I think you or cook had better go up and see about her. Perhaps she'd better have a fire."
"A fire in August! Oh, Dick, how ridiculous!" exclaimed Dorothy.