“But how can we? I’ve gone into debt now for more than thirty dollars’ worth of commercial fertilizer. I don’t dare get deeper into the mire.”
“But,” cried the sanguine ’Phemie, “the crops will more than pay for that outlay.”
“You’re a born grump, Lyddy Bray!”
“Somebody has to look ahead,” sighed Lyddy. “The crops may fail. Such things happen. Or we may get no more boarders. Or father may get worse.”
“Don’t say such things, Lyddy!” cried her sister, stamping her foot. “Especially about father.”
The older girl put her arms about ’Phemie and the latter began to weep on her shoulder.
“Don’t let us hide our true beliefs from each other,” whispered Lyddy, brokenly. “Father is not mending–not as we hoped he would, at least. And yet the hospital doctor told Aunt Jane that there was absolutely nothing medicine could do for him.”
“I know! I know!” sobbed ’Phemie. “But don’t let’s talk about it. He is so brave himself. He talks just as though he was gaining every day; but his step is so feeble—”
“And he has no color,” groaned Lyddy.