Accordingly he got up, and, stepping noiselessly so as not to disturb the other members of the household, went to Edgar's room. It was not quite dark, for the blinds were not drawn, and the moon was up. Edgar was crying less noisily now; but he did not hear Roger's footsteps approach the bed, so that he started up with a faint cry of surprise and alarm when someone pulled the bed-clothes from off his head and demanded to be told what all the row was about.
"Oh, Roger," he gasped. "Is it you?"
"Yes. What are you blubbering about?" Roger asked bluntly. "I can't sleep if you go on like that—crying like a girl! Why, Polly wouldn't do it. She'd be ashamed."
"I'm very sorry," whimpered Edgar, "but I—I can't help it."
"Are you feeling ill?" Roger questioned more gently. "If that's it, I'd better speak to mother or Cousin Becky."
"No, no. I'm not ill; it's only that I'm so miserable because of the way I've behaved about—about you."
"So you ought to be!"
"I know, I know! I'm very sorry, Roger, I am, indeed!"
"I should just think you are! But it's no good howling about it and keeping me awake. Do shut up and go to sleep." Roger spoke gruffly, but in his heart of hearts he was sorry for his cousin's distress. The moonlight showed him such a wan, thin face, with big, hollow, blue eyes which sought his wistfully. "I daresay you feel pretty bad in your mind," he proceeded, "I should if I were you; but Cousin Becky wrote that Aunt Janie and Uncle John had forgiven you everything, and—"
"Yes; but you haven't forgiven me," Edgar interrupted with a sob. "Don't you think you ever will?"