Ben rushed to his sister's side, alarmed. "Lucy," he whispered softly, "what's going on?"

Lucy was ashen, her deep blue eyes huge and teary. She was unable to answer.

Ben rubbed her back. "Luce? Whose voice?"

Lucy shook her head. She was about to answer when her father walked in.

"Kids, get ready," he said solemnly, "We don't want to be late."

Lucy ran to her own room and pulled out her navy blue skirt and white short- sleeved blouse, and brushed her curly black hair. She put on her sparkly black flip-flops and looked at herself in the mirror. Not exactly funeral material, but she didn't want to believe Lizzie was dead, either.

Ben and Lucy walked downstairs together.

"Lucy, whose voice is it?" Ben demanded.

Lucy shrugged. "Lizzie?" she whispered in such a low whisper that Ben could not hear her.

"Exactly, Lucy, now you've got it. Help me."

Lucy wailed at the unexpected voice, now knowing whose voice it was: her own sister's.

Ben frowned. "Mom, I don't think Lucy got enough sleep last night."

Her mother walked up to her youngest daughter, and felt her forehead and cheeks. "Oh, dear, Lucy, you've got a fever. Here, lie down, and drink some cocoa," her mother paused wondering whether to say the next thing. "Do you feel up to going to the service?'

"Lucy!" the voice was indignant.

Lucy nodded quickly. "Of course!" She snuggled close to Ben, aware that someone was watching her.

Ben leaned back, wondering how Lucy had gotten sick so quickly. "This should be interesting," he murmured.