“People are rather fond of talking about dying for one another,” Cress observed carelessly. “It isn’t so many that will really do it.”
“No,—only 'some,’” I said.
And I heard Jack whisper, leaning over Maimie’s couch—
“Maimie, when you were so ill, I think I could have died to make you well.”
“Yes,” she answered quite simply; “I think you would, Jack.” And a great tremor of joy crept over Jack’s frame.
I could not help noticing how Maimie seemed to depend on Jack, and to turn to him in her weakness. He was so strong, she said, and so gentle too. He could carry her up and downstairs without any seeming effort. And Maimie needed carrying for many days. She regained strength so very slowly. I wondered often whether she ever would get back her usual powers.
“Aunt Marion, Jack seems much older than he used to be,” she said one day. “I wonder why?”
“Trouble ages people,” I replied.
“Trouble?” she repeated inquiringly.
“Our Maimie being ill.”