"Marylyn," she begged, smoothing the soft, unbraided hair spread out upon the robe, "Marylyn, what's the matter?"
A long sob.
"Why, dear baby, don't you fret. We're going to be all right. Dad'll soon be back, Mr. Lounsbury's watching, and we won't lose the little home."
"Oh, it ain't that, it ain't that," weeping harder than before; "I'm so unhappy!"
It was an answer that smote Dallas to the heart. Some trouble, heretofore concealed, was threatening her sister's peace of mind. And she had not discovered it in time, had not prevented it, had not shielded her as she ought.
"Marylyn, honey, tell me what's the matter."
The younger girl crept closer, screening her eyes.
Dallas lifted her into her arms. Her cheek was feverish, her hands were dry and hot.
Sudden terror seized the elder girl—the old terror that had fastened upon her through all the years of her mother's failing.
"Marylyn," she said huskily, "do you feel that—that you're not as well as you was? are you afraid you'll be sick like—mother?"