“It’s evident,” she remarked sarcastically, “that you people never had any children!”
A faint flush spread over the woman’s face, and then a tear came to her eye. But she looked down hastily at her plate to hide her embarrassment.
“No, we never did,” she replied. “But how did you know?”
“No mother or father could be so cruel!” answered Marjorie cuttingly.
The thrust hit deep; the older woman was silenced. The girl had touched the tenderest chords of her heart, and now she was fully ashamed. She would have abandoned the whole project had she dared, she was so completely on her prisoners’ side. But she was afraid of the old man; he might do something desperate to them all if she went back on her word. And even now she realized that she too was a prisoner, just as much as the girls were, and in her own house!
“What do you think can be keeping him?” asked Frieda, refusing to dignify such a contemptible creature with a name.
“I don’t know,” replied the woman. “Perhaps the telephone is out of order. Or maybe he’s took sick.”
Fresh peach ice-cream and a wonderful chocolate cake failed to produce any sort of comment on the part of the girls. Marjorie thought she had never tasted such delicious cooking in her life, but still she said nothing. Mrs. Higgins sighed; she so seldom had anyone to cook for, and it would have meant so much to her to have her efforts appreciated.
“I think there are some games in the table drawer in the parlor,” she told the girls, as they rose from the table. “You’re welcome to play with ’em.”
Frieda went in and got them, but Marjorie went straight to her room. Throwing herself upon the bed, she sobbed bitterly.
“Why do you ’spose old Higgins isn’t back?” she asked, as Frieda entered their bedroom.
“Probably he couldn’t get your father,” said the other. “Are you sure he would be home?”
Marjorie thought for a moment, and then started to weep afresh.
“No, he wouldn’t!” she exclaimed. Then, brokenly, “Mama and papa were going away this morning for a week-end party, and Jack is camping. Oh, Frieda!” Her voice died in a wail of woe.
Frieda sat down beside Marjorie and drew her head to her shoulder. She let her cry for a minute or so, and then tried to calm her.
“Nothing awful can happen, Marjorie,” she said, soothingly. “We’ll only miss a few days of good time at the most. For something is sure to happen--the real Margie Wilkinson that they are looking for will turn up, or old Higgins will reach your father by phone, and he’ll come hot-foot himself--or the scouts will send a rescue party, or----”