“Pink this time. Look.”
In both voices there was a similarity, but one was fuller, richer, with a sweetness childhood never yet could give a voice, however pure.
“When you have put it in, go once more and see if our guest has wakened.”
“And may I take the flowers and fruit?”
I think she must have answered by a nod, for the wheel went on once more till interrupted by the childish voice again.
“The last time I went in he was quite fast asleep. I put a lily in his hand, but he never noticed it. Then I climbed upon the bed and kissed his brow, but it was cold, colder than anything about here. I took his hand and pressed it in both mine, but it was stiff and fell from mine as if I never held it. Then I sang one of my songs, one father taught me when I was very small, and soon I thought he looked as if he listened; but perhaps it was only thought, because when I stooped and whispered, ‘Did you hear?’ he answered not at all.”
The other laughed—a laugh so full of mirth and pure delight that, forgetting, I laughed too, but being intent on their conversation they heard not.
“Well, we cannot blame you, Sunbeam, you did your best, and failed. But this time when you go, if he is asleep you may shake him gently, it is time he was awake.”
Soon after I heard soft footsteps stealing to the door, and my first notion was to close my eyes and feign sleep once more. But I recognised that deception was perhaps a thing unknown even in trifles where children were concerned, so I sat up, feeling no giddiness after the long rest.
I remember the first glance she gave as she peeped round the door was one of curiosity to see if I were still asleep, but seeing me awake she stepped back, and then came forward hesitating, almost shyly.