“You don’t look well, Dil,” she said. “What’s got yer?”
“My head aches.” Had she dreamed that horrible vision of the night?
“Take some queuann. Ye’ve no toime to be sick. Ye spind too much toime over the brat there. An’ it’ll be a mercy whin it’s all over. I cuddent stan’ it mesilf much longer.”
Patsey came that afternoon. Business was good, and he had a few dimes in the bank. He and three other boys boarded with an old woman.
“But I’ve been thinkin’, Dil, that if we had you instid o’ the old woman! She can’t make an Irish stew worth shucks, an’ yers wud jist make a felly sing in his sleep. Whin I git some money ahead I’ll jist have youse come. Yer mammy’ll not mind if ye take Bess.”
Dil smiled. It was lovely of Patsey, but they would be going to heaven then. She wondered why they didn’t care to take Patsey along when they were so fond of him. He wouldn’t want to go—how she knew that she could not tell, either.
He brought Bess a splendid orange and some candy and an illustrated paper. The pictures were very entertaining.
“Bess is lookin’ slim,” he said. “She wants to go out in the fresh air.”
“But it’s so cold, an’ it just goes over me an’ all through, as if I hadn’t half enough clo’es on. No, I must stay in an’ keep good an’ warm, an’ get well by spring.”
“That’s the talk,” and Patsey smiled.