"But what for? Please stop crying and tell me."
I could barely catch a few words amidst her violent sobs.
"My father," she said. (I knew Gabriella's father had died the winter before when she was away at school.) "A telegram," she stumbled on, and I waited, "your father—"
My father!
I went to Gabriella quickly, put my arm about her and leaned my head down close to hers.
"Listen, Gabriella. Be quiet for just one minute and answer me. Did you say my father?" and then in a fresh torrent of sobs I heard her "Yes."
I left her crying there and went down through the long corridors to Miss Brown's office. I passed Sarah Platt's room without knowing it. I even passed some one in the hall but I have no idea who it was. I kept thinking, "This is your first test. Be ready and don't break."
Miss Brown was at her desk. She started a little when she saw me, then smiled—how could she smile—and said, "Oh, Gabriella found you. Come here, dear," and she put out her hand. I closed the door and then backed up against it. I couldn't go near Miss Brown. I didn't want her tissue-paper sympathy.
"What's happened to my father, Miss Brown?" I asked. "You can tell me the very worst right off."
She didn't hedge any more.
"He is very, very ill," she replied, going straight to the point as I liked to have her.
"Does that mean," I said, "that he is—is—" I couldn't say it—"is worse than very ill?" I finished.
"No," she replied. "No, Lucy. Your father is
