“Listening, Kay?”
“Yeth,” in a little drowsy voice.
As she grew more sleepy she would snuggle closer with her lips against his face, till at last he knew by her regular breathing that his audience was indifferent to his wildest fancies.
One evening his parents returned from a ride and, entering the house, heard a stifled sobbing.
“What’s that?”
“Must be the children.”
“You wait here, Nan. I’ll go up and quiet them.”
“No, I’ll come, up too.”
As they climbed the stairs and reached the landing, they made out words which were in the wailing: “I don’t want to be a dead ‘un. I don’t want to be a dead ‘un.”
It was Kay’s voice. Peter, leaning over her, was whispering frightened comfort.