corn was eaten from them, forever registering that feast high above all
other feasts in the tablet of blessed memories.

The interruption to all this came as unexpectedly as a clap of thunder
from a clear sky. A messenger boy on a wheel whirled up to the front gate
with a telegram. Tippy signed for it, not wanting the boy to see Barbara
in such outlandish dress, then carried it out to the picnickers. She held
it under her apron until she reached them. Telegrams always spelled
trouble to Mrs. Triplett, but Barbara took this one from her with a
smiling thank you, without, rising from her seat on the sand. Her father
often telegraphed instead of writing when away on his vacations, and she
knew he was up at a lake resort in Michigan, at an Editors' Convention.
Telegrams had always been pleasant things in her experience. But as she
tore this open and read she turned pale even under her brown stain.

"It's papa," she gasped. "Hurt in an automobile accident. They don't say
how bad--just hurt. And he wants me. I must take the first train."

She looked up at Mrs. Triplett helplessly, not even making an effort to
rise from the sand, she was so dazed and distressed by the sudden
summons. It was the first time she had ever had the shock of bad news. It
was the first time she had ever been called upon to act for herself in
such an emergency, and she felt perfectly numb, mind and body. Tippy's
voice sounded a mile away when she said:

"You can catch the boat. It's an hour till the _Dorothy Bradford_
starts back to Boston."

Still Barbara sat limp and powerless, as one sits in a nightmare.