There was a pause. Both children were busy with their own thoughts. They made a striking picture as they sat close together beneath the gnarled apple-tree, the dying sunset lights lingering on their fair young heads—a picture that was not without its pathos, because life must pass that way, life—and death.
"I expect that it is getting late, and I ought to be going home," said Harold after a few minutes, wearying of silence, and beginning to feel that even Agatha's teasing would have a refreshingly every-day sound after such serious thoughts.
Helen rose rather reluctantly.
"Very well," she said. "Let us go in and say good-night to father, and afterwards I will walk with you as far as the gate."
"And I say, Helen, you won't forget to cut out those wheels for me to-morrow morning, will you? They must match exactly, remember. And if you could pull out and stretch that wire——"
"I sha'n't forget, Harold. You needn't fear. But, by the way, you never told me about Jim Hunt."
"I heard father saying that he was very ill indeed. Mother stopped him from saying more when she saw that I was there. I was thinking about him just now. I used to hate him sometimes when he sat in the choir and screamed in my ear. But I'm sorry for him now. I wish I hadn't hated him. Father spoke as if he thought he was going to die."
"Couldn't we do something for him?" suggested practical Helen.
"I have sixpence," returned Harold, "if that would do."
Helen shook her head.