"I will see about it," said Dr. Arundel as he went out.
"I can't talk," said Ada, without looking at Nellie, "so you will not mind. I feel as if I had no head and no heart."
She sat down stonily at the table and cut some bread and butter, pushing the loaf towards her sister, saying in a low voice, "Eat."
Then they were both silent. What could they say? The blow was too fresh and too heavy to allow of words. Arthur came in, and began his tea, like them, in silence. After they had eaten as much as they could force themselves to swallow, Ada proposed that they should go upstairs again.
When they noiselessly re-entered the sick-room, they found their mamma in bed, and beside her, with a white, patient little face, was Tom, resting his head on her pillow.
Dr. Arundel had found him prepared for bed in the nursery, and had asked him if he could trust himself to be calm, if taken to his mother? "For a great deal depends on calmness, Tom. She has been asking for you, and I should like you to be with her, if you can promise."
"I think I can, papa," he had said; "and you don't know how bad it is to be right away from her."
"Yes, dear, I do know," he answered.
So little Tom was carried down, and his mother had placed her hand on her pillow, and said faintly:
"May he, papa?"