"Miserable little coward!"
In a moment, the girl was kneeling on the floor beside the unhappy child, holding him tight, whispering words of love and comfort.
"No, no, darling; it is only that she does not understand! We will explain to her—I will tell her later why you hated it so. Wait till your daddy comes back. I am sure he will understand."
So she strove to comfort him, while Meekie coaxed the little girls back to the horizontal attitude under their sheets.
"Don't make me go back into that bed," whispered Roddy fearfully.
"No; of course not. Don't worry; just trust me, darling!" She turned to Meekie. "I will stay with them now, Meekie. You may go."
"But has the missy had her dinner?" asked the Cape woman politely.
"I have had all I want, thank you, Meekie."
The thought of going back to the dinner-table—to eat and join in the talk and laughter while this small boy whom she loved stayed alone with his wretchedness revolted her. Perhaps later, when he slept, she might slip out into the garden for a while. In the meantime, she beguiled him over to her own bed, and having taken off the coverlet to show him that it held no lurking horrors, she made him get in and curl up, and she knelt beside him, whispering softly so as not to disturb the others, reassuring him of her belief in his courage whilst understanding his horror, confessing her own hatred of spiders, but urging him to try and fight against his fear of them. She told him stories of her own childhood, crooned little poems to him, and sang old songs softly, hoping and praying that he would presently fall asleep. But time slipped by, and he remained wide-eyed, gripping her hand tightly, and only by the slightest degrees relaxing the nervous rigour of his body under the coverlet. Suddenly, he startled her by a strange remark:
"If I could only get into the pink palace with Carol, I'd be all right."