One morning Frances, wandering through the orchard for a breath of cool air, came suddenly on Jim, who was lying at full length on the bank in the shadow of the hedge, his head pillowed on his folded arms. There was something so forlorn in the lad’s attitude that Frances feared some fresh trouble had overtaken him; and she was not surprised that his face, when he raised it in answer to her call, was darkened by a deep dejection.
“Jim—Jim! What is the matter? Now, it’s no use to try to hide things, Jim! You know it isn’t. Just tell me.”
Jim dragged himself up to his sister’s level as she sat down beside him, and his eyes rested very wistfully on her inquiring face. So long and sad was his gaze that the girl grew yet more uncomfortable, and repeated her question insistently.
“I’ve no bad news for you, Missy,” said Jim at last, with great effort. “None that you will find bad, at least. I have heard something, and I’ve been thinking it over; that’s all. If I weren’t a coward, it wouldn’t have wanted any thinking.”
“Well, what is it, Jim?”
“I will tell you presently, Missy. As well now as any time; only I’d like your mother and the lad to hear too.”
“Jim,” said Frances, her brave voice quivering slightly, “you speak as though your news were bad.”
“That’s just my selfishness,” muttered Jim; “I couldn’t see all at once the rights of things. I can see now.”
“Come indoors and tell us all about it,” said Frances, trying to speak cheerfully; “not much news grows better by keeping.”
“It could be only a matter of hours for this, anyway,” replied Jim gently; “and if your mother is at liberty and Austin is at home, I will do as you wish.”