"Could not your sister have been the one at home?"
Joan spoke gently. "You see, Mittie has never before spent a day at your house. She wanted it so much."
"And you—did you want it, too—ever so little? Would you have cared to come, Joan?"
Joan only smiled. She felt happy beyond words.
"I've got to take you there now, if you'll come. For the night, perhaps—or at least for the evening. Mittie has had a wetting"—he called the younger girl by her name half-unconsciously—"and they have put her to bed for fear of a chill. And she wants you."
Naturally Joan was a good deal concerned, though Fred made little of the accident. He explained more fully, and an appeal to the old lady brought permission.
"Not for the night, child—I can't spare you for that, but for the evening. Silly little goose Mittie is!"
And Fred, with delight, carried Joan off.
"So Mrs. Wills can't do without you, even for one night," he said, when they were spinning along the high road, he and she behind and the chauffeur in front. He laughed, and bent to look into her eyes. "Joan, what is to happen when she has to do without you altogether?"
"Oh, I suppose—she might manage as she used to do before we came." Joan said this involuntarily; and then she understood. Her colour went up.