Chapter 29 - Page 2

silly
Angele to stay with him while you're out--and no one but you to
take yourself and the others to school. But Junie, Junie, I've
got to do it!" she sobbed out, clutching the child tighter.

Junie Fulmer, with her strangely mature perception of the case,
and seemingly of every case that fate might call on her to deal
with, sat for a moment motionless in Susy's hold. Then she
freed her wrists with an adroit twist, and leaning back against
the pillows said judiciously: "You'll never in the world bring
up a family of your own if you take on like this over other
people's children."

Through all her turmoil of spirit the observation drew a laugh
from Susy. "Oh, a family of my own--I don't deserve one, the
way I'm behaving to your"

Junie still considered her. "My dear, a change will do you
good: you need it," she pronounced.

Susy rose with a laughing sigh. "I'm not at all sure it will!
But I've got to have it, all the same. Only I do feel
anxious--and I can't even leave you my address!"

Junie still seemed to examine the case.

"Can't you even tell me where you're going?" she ventured, as if
not quite sure of the delicacy of asking.

"Well--no, I don't think I can; not till I get back. Besides,
even if I could it wouldn't be much use, because I couldn't give
you my address there. I don't know what it will be."

"But what does it matter, if you're coming back to-night?"

"Of course I'm coming back! How could you possibly imagine I
should think of leaving you for more than a day?"

"Oh, I shouldn't be afraid--not much, that is, with the poker,
and Nat's water-pistol," emended Junie, still judicious.

Susy again enfolded her vehemently, and then turned to more
practical matters. She explained that she wished if possible to
catch an eight-thirty train from the Gare de Lyon, and that
there was not a moment to lose if the children were to be
dressed and fed, and full instructions written out for Junie and
Angele, before she rushed for the underground.

While she bathed Geordie, and then hurried into her own clothes,
she could not help wondering at her own extreme solicitude for
her charges. She remembered, with a pang, how often she had
deserted Clarissa Vanderlyn for the whole day, and even for two
or three in succession--poor little Clarissa, whom she knew to
be so unprotected, so exposed to evil influences. She had been
too much absorbed in her own greedy bliss to be more than
intermittently aware of the child; but now, she felt, no sorrow
however ravaging, no happiness however absorbing, would ever
again isolate her from her kind.

And then these children were so different! The exquisite
Clarissa was already the