Mr. Challoner came up to the bed, and knelt there, his arm resting on the blanket.
“No, dear lad,” he said. “I am not; indeed, I am not.”
Martin shifted his position a little.
“I’m glad,” he said, “because I’m so tired. Helen, I played well, really well, did I?”
“Yes, Martin; Karl Rusoff said—he said nobody ever played better.”
And she was silent because she could not say any more just then.
“And what is to-day?” asked Martin at length.
“It is Easter Sunday, dear Martin,” said his father.
Martin half raised his head.
“I ought to be at Mass,” he said, “but I can’t. It doesn’t matter, does it, if one can’t?”