“She said we was to wait and not make a noise,” observed the oldest girl in a small voice.
“Well, we won’t wait,” Stacey remarked. “There are doughnuts, you know. You come on in with me,” he said to the girl who had spoken, “on your tip-toes, and help fix the plates.”
She obeyed timidly.
“First we’ll fix one for your mother,” he whispered, and she nodded, her lips pressed together.
He and the three children ate gravely in the kitchenette. Then Stacey rose. “I’ll go back to your father now,” he said, “and send your mother out.”
“Your plate is ready for you, Mrs. Burnham. And the children have eaten,” he announced in a triumphant whisper.
She gasped, then suddenly her mouth curved prettily into a smile—the first he had seen her give. Stacey sat down again by the bedside.
Burnham seemed a little calmer now, and his incoherent muttering had ceased, but he looked very exhausted, and Stacey was relieved when about one o’clock the nurse arrived.
The three of them sat there silently all the hot afternoon, with only short intervals of release when Stacey stretched his legs in the hall or Mrs. Burnham went out to keep an eye on the children. There was no change in the sick man. The nurse said that the crisis would probably be reached next day.
At six o’clock Stacey left the house, asking the nurse to telephone him in case of a serious change. He walked back to his hotel.