One Monday morning Walter appeared quite downcast, so unusual with him that Gladys could not forbear asking what troubled him.
'It's Liz,' he said, relieved to be asked, though diffident in volunteering information. 'She's ill,—very badly, too,—and she is not looked after. I wish I knew what to do.'
Gladys was sympathetic at once.
'What is it?—the matter, I mean. Have they had a doctor?'
'Yes; it's inflammation of the lungs. She's so much in the streets at night, I think, when it's wet; that's where she's got it.'
'I am very sorry. Perhaps I could do something for her. My father was often ill; he was not strong, and sometimes caught dreadful chills painting outside. I always knew what to do for him. I'll go, if you like.'
The lad's face flushed all over. He was divided between his anxiety for his sister, whom he really loved, and his reluctance for Gladys to see his home. But the first prevailed.
'If it wouldn't be an awful trouble to you,' he said; and Gladys smiled as she gave her head a quick shake.
'No trouble; I shall be so glad. Tell me where to find the place, and I'll go after dinner, before it is dark. Uncle Abel says I must not go out after dark, you know.'
'It's a long way from here, and you'll have to take two cars.'