storm like this—there isn’t another house for some ways. I advise you to stop here. I'll get you a bit of supper—I don’t live here—I’m just a neighbour come to help ’em out a bit. Hollinger’s my name—Mrs. Julia Hollinger. Mrs. Bradshaw ain’t good for anything—you’ve heard of her little boy mebbe.”
“Is this where—and—he—hasn’t—been found?”
“No—never will be. I’m not mentioning it to her”—with a quick glance over her shoulder along the hall—“but it’s my opinion he got in the quicksands down by the bay. That’s what I think. Come in and lay off your things. I s’pose you don’t mind eating in the kitchen. The room is cold—we haven’t the stove up in it yet. It'll have to be put up soon if there’s a funeral. I s’pose there won’t be if he’s in the quicksand. You can’t have a funeral without a body, can you?”
All this was very gruesome. Emily and Ilse would fain have gone elsewhere—but the storm had broken in full fury and darkness seemed to pour in from the sea over the changed world. They took off their drenched hats and coats and followed their hostess to the kitchen, a clean, old-fashioned spot which seemed cheerful enough in lamp-light and fire-glow.
“Sit up to the fire. I’ll poke it a bit. Don’t mind Grandfather Bradshaw—Grandfather, here’s two young ladies that want to stay all night.”
Grandfather stared stonily at them out of little, hazy, blue eyes and said not a word.
“Don’t mind him”—in a pig’s whisper—“he’s over ninety and he never was much of a talker. Clara—Mrs. Bradshaw—is in there”—nodding towards the door of what seemed a small bedroom off the kitchen. “Her brother’s with her—Dr. McIntyre from Charlottetown. We sent for him yesterday. He’s the only one that can do anything with her. She’s been walking the floor all day but we’ve got her persuaded to lie down a bit. Her husband’s out looking for little Allan.”
“A child can’t be lost in the nineteenth century,” said
