She sat on her mossy stone a long time. There wasn't anything in the world, was there, to stand in the way of her staying her year out, the year she had been invited for, except her own silly pride? What a little goose she had been! She sat and smiled at the mountains and felt very happy and fresh and clean-minded, as though her brain had finished a kind of house-cleaning and were now put to rights again, airy and sweet and ready for use.
The postman's wagon flashed by on the road below. She could see the faded gray of the man's coat. He had been to the house and was townward bound now. How late he was! Nothing to hurry down for. There would be a letter, perhaps, but not one from Father. His had come yesterday. She rose after a while and drifted down through the still September warmth, as quiet and lazy and contented as a leaf.
Priscilla's small excited face met her at the door.
"Sidney's sick; we just got the letter. Mother's going to camp to-morrow."
"Sidney sick! Who wrote? What's the matter?"
"He did. He's not much sick, but he doesn't feel just right. He's in the hospital. I guess he can't be much sick, if he wrote, himself. Mother wasn't to come, he said, but she's going."
"Of course." Nervous fear clutched Elliott's throat, like an icy hand. Oh, poor Aunt Jessica! Poor Laura!
"In Mumsie's room," said Priscilla. "We're all helping."
Elliott mounted the stairs. She had to force her feet along, for they wished, more than anything else, to run away. What should she say? She tried to think of words. As it turned out, she didn't have to say anything.
Laura was the only person in Aunt Jessica's room when they reached it. She sat in a low chair by a window, mending a gray blouse.
"Elliott's come to help, too," announced Priscilla.
"That's good," said Laura. "You can put a fresh collar and cuffs in this gray waist of Mother's, Elliott--I'll have it done in a minute--while I go set the crab-apple jelly to drip. And perhaps you can mend this little tear in her skirt. Then I'll press the suit. There isn't anything very tremendous to do."
It was all so matter-of-fact and quiet and natural that Elliott didn't know what to make of it. She managed to gasp, "I hope Sidney isn't very sick."