Evereld made no comment, she knew quite well that he had been crying, and a great shyness stole over her—a terror of not being able to reach him, and yet a consuming desire somehow to comfort him. She remembered that in her own grief grown-up people had always tried to soothe her with the adjuration, “Don’t cry, darling.” She had never found any comfort in the words, and of course they would vex a boy. Dick would have hated them.
“Do you know,” she said suddenly, “in some ways you do so remind me of Dick.”
“Who is he?” asked Ralph, still in the dejected voice.
“Dick is my brother,” said Evereld. “He died last winter. There was an outbreak of cholera. On the Thursday father and mother died, on the Friday Dick and I were taken ill, and when I got better they told me he was gone. I was the only one left.” Her voice quivered a little. She ended abruptly.
“Oh!” cried Ralph, like one in pain, and instinctively he caught her hand in his and held it fast. There was a silence. It seemed as if they did not need words just then.
Ralph had not found the strong man of his dreams; he had found instead a little girl with griefs greater than his own, and he felt a longing to comfort her and care for her, and as far as possible to be to her what Dick would have been.
“Was he older than I am?” was his first question.
“He was thirteen,” said Evereld. “His birthday was in last September—on the 15th.”
“And I was thirteen in September, too,—on the 9th,” said Ralph.
“Only a week between you—how strange!” said Evereld. “And about soldiers he was just like you. When you rushed to the window this afternoon and saw all the little details about the Horse Guards’ uniforms, that I never much noticed before, you made me think of Dick directly. He was crazy about uniforms, and Bridget used to make them for him. We’ll get her to make you one.”