Chapter III: Explanations

NEVER will Maud forget the unutterable sense of desolation that swallowed her up at that moment of realizing that her mother was nowhere within call; that she had left them, and gone out into the woeful storm, out alone, as the girl at first believed, to seek their missing father.

Minnie, awakened in terror by Maud's last piercing cry of "Mother!" met her white and trembling on the landing as she went back to the bed-room.

"Oh, Maud, what is it? What is the matter?" she distressfully questioned.

"Mother's gone!"

"Gone! Gone where? You must have been dreaming, child!" exclaimed the elder girl.

"I've not. I wish I was!" answered Maud between her chattering teeth. "Father has never been home—their room is empty—and now I can't find mother!"

Shivering though she was with cold and fright, poor Maud sat down on the top stair, and began to cry.

"Sh-sh! Don't make a noise; go back to bed both of you!" said the voice of Ellen the servant from above. "You'll catch your deaths standing out there."

"Where's mother, then?"

"Gone to the hospital, to see your pa. Go right back into bed, now, if you want me to tell you. Lawkamussy, what a night I'm having! We shall all be laid up to-morrow."

Thus adjured, the girls huddled down beneath the bed-clothes again.

"What's happened to father? What hospital? Has he had an accident?" they queried breathlessly.

"Hush now! Don't wake your poor little sister," said Ellen in a loud whisper. "Let her sleep on in peace, if she may. Your ma came up to me," continued the girl, seating herself on the side of the bed, "just as I was dropping off to sleep—near upon twelve it was, for somehow I couldn't forget myself, try all I might, which isn't like me, particular after a hironin' day—and says that a gentleman from St. Mercy's Hospital had come to tell her as how your pa had met with a haccident, and been took there, and there was just time for her to catch the last train."

"To go to him! Oh, Ellen, is he much hurt?" asked the girls in tones of dread. "How did it happen? When? Where?"

"I don't know no more than I've told you," said the maid. "Your ma was off again like a shot, but as quiet as a mouse.

"'I do hope those poor children won't wake,' she said.

"And now I am going to bed again," concluded Ellen. "I declare every bone in my body's a-shakin'. Get to sleep again as fast as you can. It's no manner of use for you to go frettin' and making yourselves ill."

"Oh, don't go yet, Ellen!" begged Maud, clutching the girl's sleeve. "Do you think it's anything very serious?"

"Well, I should reckon it is by their sending for your ma at twelve o'clock at night, and such a night as this."

"Oh, what 'shall' we do? Whatever shall we do?" wailed Minnie.

"Go to sleep again, I tell you, and not keep me standin' here while my very feet freeze to the floor!" returned Ellen, with not wholly inexcusable brusqueness. "I've told you all I know; so, good-night!"

And away she sped.

Little Margerie had lain undisturbed through it all; her soft, regular breathing telling of peaceful sleep.

"Oh! Isn't it 'dreadful?' Oh, Maudie, what shall we do?" said Minnie again, as the sisters clung together. "What 'can' have happened to father? Fancy poor dear mother being fetched to go to him like that! Hark at the wind! Oh, Maudie, I do wish I'd helped mother mend the stockings last night instead of doing up that lace thing!"

"I wish I'd gone and helped father on with his greatcoat in the morning instead of sticking over the fire reading!" rejoined Maud. "And now, perhaps, he'll ne-ever want his greatcoat again!"

And overcome with these self-reproachful recollections—such as ever cut the most deeply of all in times of trouble—the girls mingled their tears and sobs in each other's arms.

"We haven't been nearly as good to father and mother as we ought, have we?" whispered Minnie, still burdened by the thought of admonitions disregarded and duties left undone. "If only God will have mercy on us, and let them both come safe back to us, we will be better—won't we, Maudie?"

"Yes," answered Maud. Then she suggested:

"Let's say the Lord's Prayer together, Minnie. And—and that one, 'Lighten our darkness;' shall we?"

So, holding fast each other's hands, they murmured together in broken whispers these brief and simple prayers, adding of their own accord to the evening collect the names of those precious parents for whom the "perils and dangers" of that night seemed to their small hearts so fearsome and great.

Then by and by, they once more forgot their anxieties in slumber.

The morning dawned clear, cold, and dazzlingly white. Very comfortless and empty looked the parlour when the sisters went downstairs, albeit the breakfast was all laid, and a blazing fire strove to warm the flood of blue-shadowed light that poured in from the snow-mantled outer world.

"I don't want any breakfast," said Margerie tearfully; "I want mother!"

"Oh, you must eat something, dearie; I'm going to," returned Minnie, beginning to act upon last night's good resolution by putting on a cheerful air for the sake of her little sister. "It would worry poor mother dreadfully if she thought we neglected ourselves because she isn't here to see after us."

"I wonder if father is able to eat any breakfast," was Margerie's next remark, as with unwilling throat she gulped down scarcely-tasted bites of bread and marmalade.

Minnie silently wiped her eyes, and neither of the sisters made any reply.

"Come, Maudie," said Minnie presently, "your coffee is poured out."

Maud was standing at the window gazing with wide sad eyes and drooping mouth at the pall-like waste of snow that reflected a cold, white light on her already pallid face. Suddenly, however, even as Minnie spoke, her countenance became radiant with a brightness from within.

"Here's mother!" she cried.

They ran hurriedly to the door.

"Oh, mother—mother, 'dear!'" and six eager arms embraced that weary form. "Oh, mother! It is good to have you back. How is father?"

"My poor dears, how cruel it seemed to desert you!" said Mrs. Grace sinking down on the first chair she found. "You didn't know it till this morning, did you?"

"Maud and I woke in the night, and Ellen told us," answered Minnie briefly. "Mother, dearest, what has happened to father?"

"He had a fall at a railway-station coming home last night," replied Mrs. Grace, in a voice which she strove to keep steady.

Margerie was untying her bonnet-strings, and tenderly smoothing her wind-tossed hair.

"It was in the City. I think the snow must have frozen on the heels of his boots. He fell from the top to the bottom of a flight of steps."

"Oh, mother! Is he—is he 'much' hurt?"

"He was insensible for some hours—that is how it was they could not let us know any sooner. He did not happen to have a card or anything about him. As soon as he became conscious for a little while, he managed to tell them where he lived."

"Isn't he conscious now?" asked Maud, catching apprehensively at what was implied in her mother's words.

"Not when I came away. I want to get back again as soon as possible. But," added Mrs. Grace with a tearful smile, "I felt I must come and peep at my three poor deserted chicks."

"Mother, darling, drink this; it's nice and sweet," said Margerie, holding a cup of coffee to her mother's lips, while she cuddled her dear head so close that to comply with the request was impossible. "And I'll make you a slice of my very best toast with all the crust cut off."