mind—her Grandmother never was right after she heard of her son’s death. When Clara heard they weren’t going to search no more she screamed once and laid down on the bed with her face to the wall—hain’t stirred since. Well, the world has to go on for other folks. Help yourselves to the toast. I’d advise ye not to be in too much of a hurry starting out till the wind dries the mud a bit.”
“I’m not going to go until we find out if—’ whispered Ilse inconclusively.
Emily nodded. She could not eat, and if Aunt Elizabeth or Aunt Ruth had seen her they would have sent her to bed at once with orders to stay there—and they would have been quite right. She had almost reached her breaking-point. The hour that passed after Dr. MclIntyre’s departure seemed interminable. Suddenly they heard Mrs. Hollinger, who was washing milk-pails at the bench outside the kitchen door, give a sharp exclamation. A minute later she rushed into the kitchen, followed by Dr. McIntyre, breathless from his mad run from Malvern Bridge.
“Clara must be told first,” he said. “It is her right.”
He disappeared into the inner room. Mrs. Hollinger dropped into a chair, laughing and crying.
“They’ve found him—they’ve found little Allan—on the floor of the hall closet—in the Scobie cottage!’
“Is—he—living?” gasped Emily.
“Yes, but no more—he couldn’t even speak—but he’ll come round with care, the doctor says. They carried him to the nearest house—that’s all the doctor had time to tell me.”
A wild cry of joy came from the bedroom—and Clara Bradshaw, with dishevelled hair and pallid lips, but with the light of rapture shining in her eyes, rushed through the kitchen—out and over the hill. Mrs. Hollinger caught up a coat and ran after her. Dr. McIntyre sank into a chair.
“I couldn’t stop her—and I’m not fit for another run
