And then suddenly an arresting idea came into her head. What difference would it make if they did think her crazy? Elliott Cameron had never had such an idea before; all her life she had in a perfectly nice way thought a great deal about what people thought of her. This idea was so strange it set her gasping. "But how they would _talk_ about me!" she said. And then her brain clicked back, exactly like another person speaking, "What if they did? That wouldn't really make you crazy, would it?" "Why, no, I suppose it wouldn't," she thought. "And most likely they'd be all talked out by the time I got back, too. But even if they weren't, any one would be crazy to think it was crazy to want to stay up here at Uncle Bob's and Aunt Jessica's. Even Stannard has stayed weeks longer than he needed to!" When she thought of that she opened her eyes wide for a minute. "Oho!" she said to herself; "I guess Stan did get a rise out of me! You were easy game that time, Elliott Cameron." She sat on her mossy stone a long time. There wasn't anything in the world, was there, to stand in the way of her staying her year out, the year she had been invited for, except her own silly pride? What a little goose she had been! She sat and smiled at the mountains and felt very happy and fresh and clean-minded, as though her brain had finished a kind of house-cleaning and were now put to rights again, airy and sweet and ready for use. The postman's wagon flashed by on the road below. She could see the faded gray of the man's coat. He had been to the house and was townward bound now. How late he was! Nothing to hurry down for. There would be a letter, perhaps, but not one from Father. His had come yesterday. She rose after a while and drifted down through the still September warmth, as quiet and lazy and contented as a leaf. Priscilla's small excited face met her at the door. "Sidney's sick; we just got the letter. Mother's going to camp to-morrow." "Sidney sick! Who wrote? What's the matter?" "He did. He's not much sick, but he doesn't feel just right. He's in the hospital. I guess he can't be much sick, if he wrote, himself. Mother wasn't to come, he said, but she's going." "Of course." Nervous fear clutched Elliott's throat, like an icy hand. Oh, poor Aunt Jessica! Poor Laura! "Where are they?" she asked. "In Mumsie's room," said Priscilla. "We're all helping." Elliott mounted the stairs. She had to force her feet along, for they wished, more than anything else, to run away. What should she say? She tried to think of words. As it turned out, she didn't have to say anything. Laura was the only person in Aunt Jessica's room when they reached it. She sat in a low chair by a window, mending a gray blouse. "Elliott's come to help, too," announced Priscilla.