"Yes do," said Mrs. Crane, "and then come back. I can't bear to think of staying here alone."
For the next four days there was a deep depression in the middle of Mrs. Crane's puffy feather bed for the injured foot was badly swollen and Mrs. Crane was far too heavy to go hopping about on the other one. At first, her usually hopeful countenance wore a strained, anxious expression, quite pathetic to see.
"Now don't you worry one bit," said comforting little Bettie. "We'll take turns staying with you; we'll feed Polly and Dicksy, and I believe every friend you have is going to offer to make broth. Mother's making some this minute."
"But there's the lodgers," groaned Mrs. Crane, "both as particular as a pair of old maids in a glass case. Mr. Barlow wants his bed-clothes tucked in all around so tight that a body'd think he was afraid of rolling out of bed nights, and Mr. Bailey won't
