‘Then what’s all this? What did they say? It’s all stuff; I’m sure it is, and you’re getting better. But what did Ellen mean?’
‘No, Harold,’ said Alfred, getting his brother’s hand in his, ‘it’s not stuff; I shan’t get well; I’m going after poor Charlie; and don’t you be a bad lad, Harold, and run away from your church, for you don’t know—how bad it feels to—’ and Alfred turned his face down, for the tears were coming thick.
‘But you aren’t going to die, Alf. Charlie never was like you, I know he wasn’t; he was always coughing. It is all Ellen. Who said it? I won’t let them.’
‘The doctor said it to Betsey Hardman,’ said Alfred; and his cough was only too like his brother’s.
Harold would have said a great deal in contempt of Betsey Hardman, but Alfred did not let him.
‘You’ll wake Mother,’ he said. ‘Hush, Harold, don’t go stamping about; I can’t bear it! No, I don’t want any one to tell me now; I’ve been getting worse ever since I was taken, and—oh! be quiet, Harold.’
‘I can’t be quiet,’ sobbed Harold, coming nearer to him. ‘O Alf! I can’t spare you! There hasn’t been no proper downright fun without you, and—’
Harold had lain down by him and clung to his hand, trying not to sob aloud.
‘O Harold!’ sighed Alfred, ‘I don’t think I should mind—at least not so much—if I hadn’t been such a bad boy.’
‘You, Alfy! Who was ever a good boy if you was not?’