"Hush, not a word!" Mr. Baitson said, when she wanted to speak.
She smiled and gave in directly; but her eyes wandered round till they fell on her brother.
He looked sorely troubled, and I think his sister noticed this, for she kept watching him as long as he was within sight. When they had laid her on the bed, only Mr. Baitson stayed, beside mother and me. He said she was to have her clothes slipped off her with the least possible movement, and he would call again by-and-by. Then I saw Miss Russell sign to him to go close, and she whispered, "Walter!"
"You want to see your brother? Well, just for a moment. But I can't have talking, you know," said Mr. Baitson.
The brother didn't so much as give a glance towards mother or me when he was called in. He went straight to the bed and bent down, and I heard a sort of choke, as if he was almost crying, and then a sound like a word which I couldn't make out.
"Forgive you, yes!" she said tenderly, and her hand went over his hair. "My own boy!"
"Hush! this won't do!" Mr. Baitson said almost sternly.
She gave him a look as much as to say, "I forgot!" and Mr. Baitson hurried the young man off.
Mother managed the undressing beautifully. I had to stay, and do as I was told; and all the time I was in a foolish fright lest the bleeding should begin again. Foolish and selfish too: for I was frightened chiefly, or at least partly, on my own account. But I didn't say anything, for mother would never tamely give in, either with herself or anybody else, to any sort of feelings or fancies which might hinder one from doing one's duty. She knew I was a bit of a coward naturally, and she often said she wouldn't have me grow up a silly useless woman, running away from people when they most needed me. I would have run away that day, if I had had my will; for I had a sick horror of the sight of blood. But I am sure I have been thankful enough in years since that mother made me fight the weakness, and not become a slave to it.
Well, the poor thing was settled at last, lying in one of mother's nice frilled night-dresses, her hands folded on the white counterpane, and her eyes shut. The brown hair with its grey streaks was in one loose plait,—she had a lot of hair, and after all there wasn't much grey in it,—and she looked younger than when I saw her first. I made up my mind that she couldn't at the most be much over thirty, and I wasn't wrong. But thirty sounded middle-aged to me at seventeen.