CHAPTER XVII.

SAD NEWS.

The next morning Winnie wakened early and lay for some time thinking over the pleasure of the evening before and the events of the past six months. It seemed to her as if a long time had elapsed since the evening on which she began to look upon life as something of a battle-field. She felt older, and yet light-hearted, as the gentle air of late May, stealing in through the open window, lightly stirred the thin curtains and brushed her face "like the breeze from an angel's wing," she thought.

"How happy we all have been!" she said aloud. "And Ernestine--I wish she had been with us last night--is the happiest of all, because she is the best."

Then she dozed off again, and did not awake until she heard little Ralph calling at her door: "Hurry up, 'Innie! B'eakast is 'most weady!"

She sprang out of bed in haste then, and was in the dining-room in time to take her seat with the rest.

"'He maketh the storm a calm, and the waves thereof are still,'" she quoted when it came her turn to give her selection. She had chosen this one for its gentle beauty.

How pleasant it all was! How full of life and joy everything seemed, even to the carnations in the center of the table, with their spicy odor!

She performed her Saturday morning duties cheerfully, and after lunch asked permission to take her books and go to Ernestine's to look over the lessons for Monday, for the end of the year--their last year in the Intermediate--was rapidly approaching, and, their course being almost completed, they would soon begin the heavy review in preparation for the high-school examination.

Permission was readily granted, and Winnifred started off with a light heart. When she reached Ernestine's home, a gentleman came down the steps and passed out of the door just as she was about to enter the hall, so, somewhat surprised, she went up the stairs more slowly than usual and knocked softly. It was opened by a strange lady, who, in answer to Winnifred's inquiry for Ernestine, said: "Ernestine is with her mother, who is so ill that the doctor says she must either have a trained nurse or go to the hospital."

"Oh, I must go right home and tell mamma!" said Winnie, and she went away without another word.

When she reached home, she found her mother in the sitting-room doing the week's mending. On hearing her daughter's sad news she hurriedly changed her dress and set out at once for Mrs. Alroy's.

She was gone an hour--an age, it seemed to Winnifred, unsuccessfully struggling to keep her mind on her lessons. When Mrs. Burton returned, her face was very grave, and she drew Winnie toward her with a warm embrace as she said:

"Mrs. Alroy has decided to have a nurse; she says she has saved a little money for just such an emergency and prefers to be at home where she can have Ernestine with her. She asked me to send for Mr. Allen."

"Fannie's father?" said Winnifred, surprised.

"Yes, and I want you to go there now and leave a note for him." And seating herself at her desk, Mrs. Burton wrote a short note while Winnie was getting on her hat.

Winnie felt very sober--and, it must be confessed, also somewhat important--as she hurried away to deliver the note. She found Mr. Allen at home, and, having sent up the note by the servant who answered the bell, she asked for Fannie, for she longed to talk the matter over with one of her mates. But Fannie, from her room at the head of the stairs, had heard Winnifred's voice, and now came running down to meet her.

"What is it, Win?" she said.

"Oh, Fannie," was the reply, "I'm afraid something awful is going to happen at Ernestine's house! Her mother is very, very sick. I went there this morning just as the doctor was coming away, and he said she must either go to the hospital or have a trained nurse. Mamma went over right away, and now Mrs. Alroy has sent for your father."

"For papa! Isn't that strange? Come up to my room, Winnie, and stay awhile, can't you?"

"I don't know," said Winnie, hesitatingly. "Mamma didn't say for me to hurry--"

"Well, come on then," said Fannie, leading the way up the softly carpeted stairs.

Winnie followed with scarcely a glance around. Although Fannie's father was much wealthier than her own, and his house finer in every way, her heart was too full for much interest in fine ornamentation; and besides, child though she was, she instinctively felt that culture and true refinement are at home anywhere.

But it was the first time she had ever been in Fannie's own room, and this she found interesting in spite of the emotions which had troubled her heart during the day. It certainly was a charming nook, with its pink-curtained bed half hidden behind a large four-fold screen with the Seasons painted in oil upon its panels; the pretty white dressing-table, draped to match the bed, and filled with the dainty accessories of a girl's toilet; a low, well-filled book case and desk combined; the pretty matting and rugs; and the many pictures and other ornaments here and there.

The girls sat down on a little willow seat, large enough for two, and Winnie had to begin all over again and tell what she knew about Mrs. Alroy's illness. In the meantime they heard Mr. Allen descend the stairs and go out of the street door before Fannie had time to call to him.

"I wonder if papa has gone to Mrs. Alroy's now," said she. "Whatever can she want of him? Perhaps she is going to have him make her will."

"But why should she do that?" said Winnie. "She can't have much to leave to anybody; and, if she had, Ernestine would be the only one to get it, wouldn't she? But what would Ernestine do if her mother should die? Who would take care of her? You know she has always said she would teach when she had finished school, and it will be years before she does that. Do you know, if the worst should happen, I'd love to have her stay with us, and I almost believe mamma would be willing."

"I think that would be a good deal for your family to do," was the answer, "but maybe papa would help."

"I don't believe Ernestine would be helped by anyone unless she did something in return. But how long I am staying! I must go right away."

"Oh, stay just a minute longer," said Fannie. "I want to show you my hanging garden;" and she threw up the long window and stepped out to a little balcony, almost filled with flowers in pots and boxes, and baskets full of vines drooping over all.

"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed Winnie.

"Yes, isn't it? I care more for this than anything else I have," Fannie replied, breaking off a bunch of heliotrope and pinning it to her friend's dress.

"Oh, thank you!" said Winnie. "But now I must go."

"Yes, I suppose you must," said Fannie, reluctantly. "I'll put on my hat and go a ways with you."

They went down the stairs and out into the street together, talking alternately--as people do under such circumstances--of trivial things and of that which filled their hearts.

When Winnifred reached home, she found her mother seated at the open window of the sitting-room, darning a pair of stockings--a homely enough occupation, but to Winnie's eyes her mother had never looked so dear or so beautiful, and she went and put her arms about her neck. Her mother returned the embrace, holding her close for a moment, and then she said gently:

"Have you your lessons for Monday, dear?"

"Oh, mamma," said Winnie, "it does not seem to me as if I can ever study again!"

"Is there any nearer duty, Winnie?"

"I don't know--I suppose not. But, mamma, I can't put my mind on my lessons, when Ernestine's mother is so sick."

"Can you help Ernestine any by neglecting your own duties, dear? You do not recognize Giant Despair when he comes in the guise of love and sympathy for your friends, but he it is who comes at these times. You know in Whose hands are the issues of life and death, of health and sickness. You cannot help Ernestine's future by worrying over her present; but you may mar a portion of your own by neglecting your present."

Winnie could not help knowing that her mother was right. She took out her books, and was soon so hard at work that her disturbed emotions were quieted, and by supper time, though still full of sympathy for her friend, she was quite herself again, and ready to play the accompaniment to the new piece her brother was learning. And when she went to bed, it was to sleep peacefully, rather than to lie awake fighting unseen terrors, as Mrs. Burton well knew would have been the case with her high-strung child had she been allowed to brood over the events of the day.