Part 9 (1/2)

”Mother, I must write to Judy now that I have some kind of address. Must I tell her?”

”Yes, my dear, tell her all we know, but tell her of our conviction that all is well. I will write to her myself, on second thought.”

John and Paul both spent every night at Chatsworth now, although it meant very early rising for both of them and often a midnight arrival or departure for Dr. John, whose practice was growing but seemed to be restricted to persons who persisted in being taken very ill in the night.

”It is because so many of them are charity patients or semi-charity and they always want to get all they can,” he would declare. ”Of course, a doctor's night rates are higher than day rates, and when they are getting something for nothing, if they call me up at two a. m. they are getting more for nothing than they would be if they had their toe aches in the day time.”

Ten days had pa.s.sed since the half-drowned sailors had been picked up by the English fis.h.i.+ng smack, and still no message from Kent.

Mrs. Brown wrote and dispatched her letter to Judy Kean. It was a hard letter to write, much harder than it would have been had there been an engagement between the two. The good lady felt that Judy was almost like a daughter and still it required something more than existed to address her as one. She must convey to Judy the news that Kent was s.h.i.+pwrecked, and still she wanted to put in the girl's heart the faith she had in his safety.

”Poor Judy! If she is alone in Paris, think what it will mean for this news to reach her!” Molly agonized to herself. ”She may and may not care for Kent enough to marry him, but she certainly is devoted to him as a friend. She will feel it just so much more keenly because he was on his way to her.”

Molly could not sleep in her great anxiety, and her faith and the certainty of Kent's safety left her. ”I must keep up for Mildred's sake,” she would cry as she tried to choke down food. Her every endeavor was to hide this loss of faith from her mother, whose belief in her son's being alive and well never seemed to falter.

Daily letters from Edwin were Molly's one comfort. He was back in the grind of lectures at Wellington and was missing sorely his wife and child.

”Molly darling, you mustn't wait any longer in Kentucky,” her mother said at breakfast one morning. Molly was trying to dispose of a gla.s.s of milk and a soft boiled egg, although her throat seemed to close at the thought of food.

”But, Mother, I wouldn't leave you for anything in the world,” she declared, making a successful gulp which got rid of the milk, at least.

”Your husband needs you, child, and I know it would be best for you.

There is no use in waiting.”

Molly looked up, startled. Had her mother, too, lost heart? Her face had grown thinner in those days of waiting and her hair was quite grey, in fact, silvery about the temples; but her eyes still held the light of faith and high resolve.

”She still has faith! And you, Molly Brown Green! Oh, ye of little faith! What right have you to be a clog and burden? Take another gla.s.s of milk this minute and keep up your health and your baby's health.”

This to herself, and aloud: ”Why, Mumsy, I want to stay right here.

Little Mildred is thriving and Edwin is doing very well at Wellington.

Every one is asking him out to dine, now that he is untrammelled with a wife. He reports a big gain in attendance on last semestre and is as cheerful as can be. Caroline, please bring me another gla.s.s of milk, and I think I'll get you to soft boil another egg for me!”

CHAPTER VIII.

DES HALLES.

Mere Tricot called Judy just at dawn. The kindly old grenadier stood over her, and this was no dream--she held a real cup of coffee.

”The good man is ready. I hate to wake you, but if you want to go to market with him, it is time.”

”Oh, yes! It won't take me a minute.”

Judy gulped the coffee and dived into her clothes. There seemed to be no question of baths with the good Tricots, and Judy made a mental note that she would go every day to the Bents' studio for her cold plunge. A bathroom is the exception and not the rule in the poorer cla.s.s of apartments in Paris. In New York, any apartment worthy of the name boasts a bathroom, but not so in the French city.

Pere Tricot was waiting for her with his little green push cart to bring home the purchases to be made in market. He was dressed in a stiff, clean, blue blouse and his kindly, lank old face was freshly shaven.

”Ah, Mam'selle! So you will go with the old man?”