"What is it, dear?" she gasped.
"There," was the answer; "read that. 'Disaster in Northern India.' Not
there--higher up!"
In her eagerness Mrs. Glynde had plunged headlong into the consumption of
Wesleyan missionaries in the Sandwich Islands. Then she had to find her
glasses, and considerable delay was incurred by putting them on upside
down. All this while the Rector sat glaring at her as if in some occult
way she were responsible for the disaster in Northern India.
At last she read the short article, and was about to give a sigh of
relief when her eyes travelled to a diminutive list of names appended.
"What!" she exclaimed. "What! Jem! Oh, Tom, dear, this can't be true!"
"I have no reason," answered the Rector grimly, "to suppose that it is
untrue."
Mrs. Glynde was one of those unfortunate persons who seem only to have
the power of aggravating at a crisis. In their way they are useful as
serving to divert the mind; but they usually come in for more than their
need of abuse.
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