Cliona had intervened.
“Never mind the phone. David, get your hat. You’ve just three minutes to catch the four-fifteen—there’s the whistle now! Run, David! Marjory, you may take the next train if you like.”
For she well knew how dear to the couple was their son, who was a hard-working young wireman in the employ of an electrical contractor.
David did run and caught the train, for the Carpentier station was almost at the foot of the hill which the bungalow crowned. Then Cliona had her hands full in offering what solace she might to her stricken cook.
There was another train at six, and in the meantime David called up, urging his wife to take it and come. He was alarmingly indefinite, but the very fact that the hospital authorities had suggested that the boy’s mother be sent for told its
