“Well, you poor little darling!” Susan was crying herself, but she put her arms about Betsey, and felt the little thing cling to her, as they cried together.

“And now, let me tackle this!” said Susan, when the worst of the storm was over a few moments later.  She started the fire briskly, and tied an apron over her gown, to attack the disorder of the table.  Betsey, breathing hard, but visibly cheered, ran to and fro on eager errands, fell upon the sink with a vigorous mop.

Susan presently carried a tea-tray upstairs, and knocked on Mrs. Carroll’s door.  “Come in,” said the rich, familiar voice, and Susan entered the dim, chilly, orderly room, her heart beyond any words daunted and dismayed.  Mrs. Carroll, gaunt and white, wrapped in a dark wrapper, and idly rocking in mid-afternoon, was a sight to strike terror to a stouter heart than Susan’s.

“Oh, Susan?” said she.  She said no more.  Susan knew that she was unwelcome.

“Betsey seems to have her hands full,” said Susan gallantly, “so I brought up your tea.”

“Betts needn’t have bothered herself at all,” said Mrs. Carroll.  Susan felt as if she were in a bad dream, but she sat down and resolutely plunged into the news of Georgie and Virginia and Mary Lou.  Mrs. Carroll listened attentively, and asked a few nervous questions; Susan suspected them asked merely in a desperate effort to forestall the pause that might mean the mention of Josephine’s name.

“And what are your own plans, Sue?” she presently asked.

“Well, New York presently, I think,” Susan said.  “But I’m with Georgie now,—­unless,” she added prettily, “you’ll let me stay here for a day or two?”

Instant alarm darkened the sick eyes.

“Oh, no, dear!” Mrs. Carroll said quickly.  “You’re a sweet child to think of it, but we mustn’t impose on you.  No, indeed!  This little visit is all we must ask now, when you are so upset and busy—­”

“I have nothing at all to do,” Susan said eagerly.  But the older woman interrupted her with all the cunning of a sick brain.

“No, dear.  Not now!  Later perhaps, later we should all love it.  But we’re better left to ourselves now, Sue!  Anna shall write you—­”

Susan presently left the room, sorely puzzled.  But, once in the hall, she came quickly to a decision.  Phil’s door was open, his bed unaired, an odor of stale cigarette smoke still in the air.  In Betsey’s room the windows were wide open, the curtains streaming in wet air, everything in disorder.  Susan found a little old brown gingham dress of Anna’s, and put it on, hung up her hat, brushed back her hair.  A sudden singing seized her heart as she went downstairs.  Serving these people whom she loved filled her with joy.  In the dining-room Betsey looked up from her book.  Her face brightened.

“Oh, Sue—­you’re going to stay overnight!”

“I’ll stay as long as you need me,” said Susan, kissing her.