headache is horribly worse; she's gone to bed. A letter came this morning, I don't know what, but I think it has something to do with her being so ill. She simply cries and cries—a frightening sort of crying—and says, 'I can't—I can't!' and wants Father to tell her what to do."
They were in the hall by this time.
"Wants Father!" Ken said gravely. "Have you got the doctor, Phil?"
"Not yet; I wanted to ask you."
"Get him—quick."
Ken ran upstairs. Halfway, he tumbled over something crouched beside the banisters. It was Kirk, quite wretched. He caught Ken's ankle.
"Mother's crying," he said; "I can hear her. Oh, do something, Ken!"
"I'm going to," said his brother. "Don't sit here in the dark and make yourself miserable."
He recollected that the landing was no darker for Kirk than any other place, and added: "You're apt to be stepped on here—I nearly smashed you. Hop along and tell Maggie that I'm as hungry as an ostrich."
