“What is it, my sweetheart?” said Mother. “You don't feel ill, do you?”
“I DON'T know,” Bobbie answered, a little breathlessly, “but I want to be by myself and see if my head really IS all silly and my inside all squirmy-twisty.”
“Hadn't you better lie down?” Mother said, stroking her hair back from her forehead.
“I'd be more alive in the garden, I think,” said Bobbie.
But she could not stay in the garden. The hollyhocks and the asters and the late roses all seemed to be waiting for something to happen. It was one of those still, shiny autumn days, when everything does seem to be waiting.
Bobbie could not wait.
“I'll go down to the station,” she said, “and talk to Perks and ask about the signalman's little boy.”
So she went down. On the way she passed the old lady from the Post-office, who gave her a kiss and a hug, but, rather to Bobbie's surprise, no words except:—
“God bless you, love—” and, after a pause, “run along—do.”
The draper's boy, who had sometimes been a little less than civil and a little more than contemptuous, now touched his cap, and uttered the remarkable words:—