"Why, where--" for grope as she might, clear up to the end, among the
clothes and the shoe-bag, no Miss Rhys was to be found.
"Oh, dear, dear!" Alexia began to whimper, feeling all around the floor
with terror-stricken fingers. "Aunt, where are you? Oh, she's been struck
and she's dead, I know she is! Polly Pepper," she screamed, tumbling out of
the closet to rush to the head of the stairs, "come up and help me find
Aunt."
"Alexia!" Miss Rhys, concluding not to be left alone in the closet when the
two girls ran downstairs, had hurried out after them, and now appeared from
the hall corner where she had crouched. "Don't scream so."
"Oh, Aunt!" cried Alexia, throwing her arms around her, "you haven't been
struck, have you? Oh, do say you haven't."
"Why, of course not; don't you see I'm here?" said Miss Rhys. "There,
child, take care, you're mussing my lace collar," and she edged off from
the nervous fingers. "We'll go downstairs, I think, and stay with Mrs.
Cummings."
"If you're really sure you are not struck," said Alexia, eying her askance,
as if in considerable doubt, "we'll go; and Polly Pepper is there and that
tiresome old Mr. Filbert."
"If Polly is there, she must stay to luncheon," said Miss Rhys, gathering
up her skirts and preparing to descend the stairs.
"Oh, how fine!" exclaimed Alexia, hopping after, losing sight of the
thunderstorm in the delight of having Polly Pepper to herself for so many
hours.
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