“What are you studying, Haze?” I ventured next.
“My lessons,” came the communicative croak.
Nice, chummy conversation that! So I retired.
But I suppose I may as well be honest and admit that none of the reasons I have mentioned yet have anything to do with making me unhappy. It is about Robin. We ought to take such good care of him,—and we can’t! Thursday he caught cold sitting on the draughty floor; and, as usual, it settled in his little lame side. So mother kept him in bed yesterday morning, and I amused him with games and stories;—but after lunch he grew feverish and tired.
“Would you like me to read again, Bobsie?” I asked.
“No, thank you, honey,” he answered, and turned his head wearily among the pillows.
“Would you like to play ‘Tommy-Come-Tickle-Me,’ or ‘Thumbs Up’?”
“No, dear, they aren’t a bit of good when your legs ache. Sing, please.”
“What shall I sing?” I asked.
“About Heaven,” said Bobsie,—“like we did last Sunday night.”