Of course, the child knew he was going somewhere with Mr. Crosby—he liked Crosby—‘to be made well and strong, my own ducky,’ as Susan had told him, with her heart bursting.
But I think it was when she was halfway through his dressing, and, kneeling on the floor beside him, was fastening his small suspenders, that Susan’s courage failed her.
‘Oh, Bonnie! Oh, my own Bonnie!’ she cried, pressing her head against his thin little ribs.
‘Susan,’ said the child earnestly, turning and clasping his arms round her bent head, ‘I’ll come back to you. I will indeed! I promise!’
It was a solemn promise; but it gave Susan nothing but such an awful pang of sure foreboding that it subdued her. Despair gives strength. She stopped her tears, and rose, and ministered to his little needs, and became as though grief was no longer hers—as though she lived and moved as her usual self. This immobility frightened her, because she knew she would pay the penalty for it later on, when he was gone.
Now, standing in the garden, awaiting Mr. Crosby and the carriage that is to carry the boy away from her for six long months, she is still dry-eyed and calm.
Here it comes. She can hear the horses’ hoofs now, and the roll of the carriage-wheels along the road. And now it is stopping at the gate. And now——
Mr. Crosby has jumped out and is coming towards her.
‘You must say good-bye to me here, Susan,’ says he, ‘because there will only be good-bye for the little brother presently.’