“But you could go at twilight. We could go when the neighbors are at supper. Wouldn’t it be fun, Sam? Could you sit up, ma’am?”
“No, I don’t believe I could. And even if I did, like as not I’d pay for it the next day.”
“But why not try? Maybe you wouldn’t have to pay for it. Oh, ma’am, it’s so wonderful to be out of doors. You can’t think what you miss staying in here—can she, Sam?”
“No,” said Sam, “she can’t have an idea. Oh, mother, you never would listen to me, though truly I believe you’d be ever so much better if you would get out. Please try. The three of us will be able to take good care of you.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then the boy flung out his arms with sudden passion.
“Oh, mother, mother, please try! Why need we all be so unhappy? Why can’t we have a little joy like other people?”
Annie Laurie felt the tears leap into her eyes. She had never before seen Sam as other than the cheerful, hearty boy, but now she knew that the cheerfulness and heartiness had been an imitation of the real thing. They had been but his courage masquerading as something else.
Mrs. Disbrow raised herself on her elbow and looked at her son. Suddenly a great light broke over her. She had not been the only sufferer in that house. Before her were the two whose youth she had shadowed with her pain.
“I’ll go,” she said in a strange voice. “When shall it be?”
“Now,” cried Annie Laurie. “I’ll run right home and have the men hitch up. Oh, Hannah, be sure she’s dressed warm enough. I’ll have something warm put in for her feet. Oh, Sam, maybe she’ll like it!”