And when, on the following evening, Cousin Becky arrived with her pale-faced little companion, her very first words were to exclaim joyfully how well and bright everyone was looking. Edgar found himself greeted very kindly by his aunt and uncle, whilst Polly was quite touched by his wan appearance, and regarded him commiseratingly as she addressed him in a much friendlier tone than she had intended to adopt.
"Dear me, you do look bad," she said candidly. "I don't think I ever saw anyone look worse. Do you feel ill now?"
"No," he answered, "not at all, thank you. I'm all right." Although he was speaking to Polly he was looking at Roger the while. Roger had shaken hands with him, but he had not uttered a word, nor had he met the appealing glance of his cousin's eyes.
"You don't look all right," Polly remarked, "you've altered a great deal. I suppose you are still rather weak, and that makes your voice sound so quivery."
"Of course I feel not quite myself," Edgar admitted. "My head gets dizzy and my legs shake, but I'm getting better every day."
Edgar was sent to bed early on the night of his arrival at the Mill House, for he was naturally very tired after his journey. His aunt came to say good-night to him the last thing before she went to her own room, also Cousin Becky, and his uncle paused at his door to call to him, "Goodnight, Edgar. Pleasant dreams, my boy."
An hour previously he had heard Polly and Roger whispering on the landing; neither of them had entered his room, however, nor spoken to him; and now, when all the household had retired for the night, he lay awake, physically weary, but too troubled to sleep, tortured by the haunting thought that his cousins were displeased he had come. He was unwelcome, he was sure of that, for, though Polly had certainly spoken to him kindly on his arrival—he was grateful to her for having done so—neither she nor her brother had taken any further notice of him during the rest of the evening, and Roger had not even looked at him once.
"I suppose he hates me, and I'm sure it's no wonder," Edgar thought miserably, bursting at last into a flood of tears.
He hid his head under the bed-clothes and tried to stifle his sobs; but Roger, in bed in the next room, on the point of falling asleep, heard them, and was on the alert in a moment. He had determined to keep his cousin at a distance; but the sounds of his passionate weeping made him feel very uneasy. What could be the meaning of Edgar's crying like that?
"I suppose he's doing it because he's been bad," he muttered. "But what a booby he is! He'll make himself ill again if he doesn't mind. I suppose I'd better go and find out what's wrong."