CHAPTER IX A TELEGRAM

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CHAPTER IX A TELEGRAM T

THE minute Mary Frances saw her mother she knew that something was wrong, for she looked so white and worried. In her hand was a yellow envelope.

So white and worried

“A telegram!” exclaimed Mary Frances. “Mother dear, is—is it—about father?”

“Oh, Mary Frances,” said her mother. “I am so thankful to see you and Aunt Maria! I was just looking for Billy to send word for you to come.”

“Do sit down, child,” said Aunt Maria, “and tell us all about it. Mary Frances, bring your mother a glass of water, and here—here is my bottle of smelling salts.”

“A telegram!”

Aunt Maria read it.

Mary Frances flew to bring the water.

Then Aunt Maria read the telegram.

“Your father has been hurt in a railroad accident, my dear,” she said. “Your mother and I must start to him immediately. I will go pack my bag. You can help your mother get ready. I shall be back in a very short time. Billy will carry our bags to the train. Your mother is feeling better, or I would not leave you. Good-bye.”

And without any more ado the old lady was gone.

Mary Frances put her arms around her mother’s neck.

“Dear little girl,” said her mother. “You will be brave and womanly, I know.”

“Dear little girl”

“Yes, mother, I will!” said Mary Frances. “I will help you in every way I can. That is the best way of helping father. Come on upstairs, dear, and let me help you get ready to go to him. Do you feel able to go?”

“It is the very thing I want to do most of all. I am glad that Aunt Maria is going with me, though. I know I shall find her a wonderful help.”

Mary Frances packed her mother’s suitcase, and fastened her dress, and buttoned her shoes, and put her hat and veil on. “Just as if I were your little girl,” said her mother. “What a darling comfort you are, my dear!”

Billy.

Billy and Mary Frances went to the station with their mother and aunt. Billy carried their luggage and bought their tickets. “No grown man could have done better,” said his mother; and even Aunt Maria praised him.

“Now, children,” said their mother, giving them their last directions, “Katie will be home about ten o’clock. You had better wait up for her. Poor, faithful soul, she will be as grieved as any of us about the sad news.”

“But it isn’t such sad news as it might be, mother,” said Billy. “Father will soon be well, we hope.”

“With the kind of nursing which I—I mean we—will give him,” said Aunt Maria, “I expect he will be about quite soon.”

That speech cheered everybody, and the children felt so hopeful that they were nearly happy as the train pulled out of the station.

“Now, children.”

“Come in Katie.”

The house seemed pretty empty and lonesome when they went in.

“Let’s play checkers,” said Billy; and they forgot a little of their troubles in the game.

It was not long before they heard footsteps on the porch. Then the bell rang.

“Oh, Billy, aren’t you afraid to go to the door?” whispered Mary Frances.

“Afraid!” exclaimed Billy. “What’s there to be scared of? You know it’s Katie, most likely.”

But Mary Frances noticed that he kept the toe of his shoe against the door, and opened it only a little way.

“Is it you, Katie?” he asked.

“It sure is,” answered Katie. “That is, it’s meself if I know meself.”

“It sure is.”

“Oh, come in, come on in, Katie,” cried Mary Frances; and with tears running down her cheeks, she told Katie the whole story.

“Poor little girl!” said Katie, holding her in her arms. “Don’t you worry. We’ll probably hear good news from your mother in the morning. Come now, let’s all go to bed.”

Another telegram

Katie was right. The morning brought another telegram. It said:

Father is not dangerously hurt. Will write about everything.

Mother.

“Oh, Katie! Oh, Billy!” cried Mary Frances. “I am the thankfulest of all thankful children in the world, I guess. I feel happy enough to kiss a crow!”

“Well, I’m thankful enough to play a game of ball,” said Billy, starting off.

“And I’m thankful enough—to clean house,” said Katie.

Mary Frances offered to help her, but Katie said, “Oh, you just keep to your own knitting, little girl. If I need you I’ll call upon you, thank you.”

“The very thing!” thought Mary Frances and went upstairs.

“The very thing.”

“You work pretty well.”

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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