“Poor Mrs. Littlejohn! You see, she isn’t used to being sick, and I am; that makes the difference.”
“Oh, I forgot!” said Gypsy, abruptly, “mother said I was to ask if those powders she left you put you to sleep.”
“Nicely. They’re better than anything the doctor gave me; everything your mother does seems to be the best sort, somehow. She can’t touch your hand, or smooth your pillow, without doing it differently from other people.”
“That’s so!” said Gypsy, emphatically. “There isn’t anybody else like her. Do you lie awake very often?”
Peace answered in the two quiet words that were on her lips so often, in the quiet voice that never complained,—
“Oh, yes.”
There was a little silence. Gypsy was watching Peace. Peace had her eyes turned away from her visitor, but she was conscious of every quick, nervous breath Gypsy drew, and every impatient little flutter of her hands.
The two girls were studying each other. Gypsy’s investigations, whatever they were, seemed to be very pleasant, for she started at last with a bit of a sigh, and announced the result of them in the characteristic words,—
“I like you!”
To her surprise, Peace just turned up her eyes and turned them away, and the eyes were full of tears. After a moment,—