‘Don’t go on that way,’ said Harold, crying bitterly. ‘Say your prayers, and maybe you will get well; and then in the morning I’ll ask Mr. Cope to come down, and he’ll tell you not to mind.’
‘I wouldn’t listen to Mr. Cope when he told me to be sorry for my sins; and oh, Harold, if we are not sorry, you know they will not be taken away.’
‘Well, but you are sorry now.’
‘I have heard tell that there are two ways of being sorry, and I don’t know if mine is the right.’
‘I tell you I’ll fetch Mr. Cope in the morning; and when the doctor comes he’ll be sure to say it is all a pack of stuff, and you need not be fretting yourself.’
When Harold awoke in the morning, he found himself lying wrapped in his coverlet on Alfred’s bed, and then he remembered all about it, and looked in haste, as though he expected to see some sudden and terrible change in his brother.
But Alfred was looking cheerful, he had awakened without discomfort; and with some amusement, was watching the starts and movements, the grunts and groans, of Harold’s waking. The morning air and the ordinary look of things, had driven away the gloomy thoughts of evening, and he chiefly thought of them as something strange and dreadful, and yet not quite a dream.
‘Don’t tell Mother,’ whispered Harold, recollecting himself, and starting up quietly.
‘But you’ll fetch Mr. Cope,’ said Alfred earnestly.
Harold had begun not to like the notion of meeting Mr. Cope, lest he should hear something of yesterday’s doings, and he did not like Alfred or himself to think of last night’s alarm, so he said, ‘Oh, very well, I’ll see about it.’