“Sleepy?”

She shook her head.

“Oh, nonsense, you must go to sleep. Look here—you be a good girl and go to sleep and tomorrow I’ll give you a lesson on Mother’s old bicycle. Like that?”

She said nothing. He fidgeted. He was at the end of his consolations.

“Well—good-night now.” He turned to go.

Her hand shot out and caught his arm.

“Is it quite true?”

“What?”

“About Mother?”

“’Fraid so.” He moved uneasily, afraid, boylike, of her tears. But she did not cry.