"Nothing, Mr. Sault."
It was not Christina. There was no hint of tears in her voice. Ambrose went back to his bed, and to sleep. He knew that he had not been mistaken either as to the sound that had awakened him or the direction from whence it came. For one terrific moment he had thought it was Christina and that the new treatment which had already commenced was responsible for the loud sobs which had disturbed his sleep. He was sorry for Evie. He was easily sorry. A cat writhing in the middle of the street, where a too swift motor-car had passed, wrung his heart. A child crying in pain made him sweat. When he saw a man and a woman quarrelling in this vile neighborhood, he rushed from the scene lest the woman be struck.
"What did he get—up for," whispered Evie, "he is always—interfering."
"The wonder to me is that the whole street isn't up," said Christina. "What is the matter, Evie?"
"I don't know—I'm miserable." Evie flounced over in her bed. "I just had to cry. I'm sorry."
Christina was very serious; she too had been awakened by the hysterical outburst. It carried a meaning to her that she had the courage to face.
"There is nothing wrong, is there, Evie?" No answer.
"I can't be all the help to you that I should like, darling, and I am a pig to you at times. But I get tetchy myself, and it is a bore lying here day after day. You would tell me if there was anything wrong, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," whispered the girl.
"I mean, really wrong. If it was anything that—affected your health. Nothing would make you wrong in my eyes. I should just love you and help you all I could. You know that. It isn't wise to keep some secrets, Evie, not if you know that there is somebody who loves you well enough to take half your burden from you."