A WORM AT THE ROOTS.
ach looked at the other, aghast. An expression as of sudden enlightenment flitted across the boyish face of Tom Black; but nobody noticed that.
“That sound means some accident!” exclaimed Lucy, hurrying out of the room. Miss Latimer followed her. Mr. Somerset and young Black stayed behind, Mr. Somerset holding back little Hugh.
But they only lingered for a moment. A cry from Lucy and a pungent smell of burning which saluted their nostrils set them too running downstairs.
Mrs. Challoner and Miss Latimer were bending over the body of Mrs. Morison, prostrate just outside the dining-room door. A japanned tray containing knives and forks and spoons, scattered over the floor, explained the crash which had followed the heavy fall. Little Hugh shrieked, “Mrs. Morison is dead!” and began to cry. But she breathed stertorously.
“She has had a fit,” Lucy said. “Working over the big fire has brought it on.”
Wilfrid Somerset caught up his hat.
“I know the nearest doctor’s!” he exclaimed, and, putting young Black aside, he hirpled off, self-consciousness suspended in his eager desire to be of service.
“Mrs. Morison isn’t dead, dear,” Miss Latimer reassured little Hugh; “but she is very ill, and you must not interrupt us while we take care of her.”