"It would take too—oo—oo long," sobbed Bettie, sitting up and mopping her eyes with the muslin window curtain, which she could easily reach from the foot of the bed. "He's way off in Washington. Oh dear—oh dear—oh dear!"
"Why couldn't we telegraph?" demanded Marjory, with whom hope died hard. "Telegrams go pretty fast, don't they?"
"They cost terribly," said Bettie. "They're almost as expensive as express packages. Still, we might find out what it costs."
"I dough the telegraph-mad," wheezed Mabel from the wash-basin. "I'll go hobe and telephode hib and ask what it costs—I've heard my father give hib bessages lots of tibes—Oh by, by dose is all stuffed up."
"Try a handkerchief," suggested Jean. "Go ask, if you want to; it won't do any harm nor probably any good."
Mabel ran home, taking care to keep her back turned toward the Milligan house.
