“Well, we must try and think of others, dearie, and not of ourselves.”
“It’s not of myself, auntie.”
“Never fret about me, Sadie.”
“No, auntie, I was not thinking of you.”
“Was it of any one in particular?”
“Of Mr. Stephens, auntie. How gentle he was, and how brave! To think of him fixing up every little thing for us, and trying to pull his jacket over his poor roped-up hands, with those murderers waiting all round him. He’s my saint and hero from now ever after.”
“Well, he’s out of his troubles anyhow,” said Miss Adams, with that bluntness which the years bring with them.
“Then I wish I was also.”
“I don’t see how that would help him.”
“Well, I think he might feel less lonesome,” said Sadie, and drooped her saucy little chin upon her breast.