Winnie was silent, and the swallow flew on again.
Now they were in a room, and a little boy was lying on a sofa, and he had no books or toys within reach.
“I wish somebody would come—it is so dull,” Winifred heard him say. “I wonder when the others will be coming in.”
Just then there came a sound of children’s voices laughing and shouting. They came nearer and nearer, and seemed to pass the door of the room, but nobody came in. The little sick boy called; but in the noise of laughing nobody heard, and the tears came into his eyes.
“They have all gone up to play,” he said, “and nobody cares to see if I want anything, and I did so want to have somebody to talk to!”
“Oh, swallow!” cried Winnie indignantly, “what horrid children! That poor little boy! How could they?”
“It was such a little thing, coming in to speak to him, I don’t suppose anybody ever thought of it,” answered the swallow. “They are not horrid children. They are fond of their little brother; but people cannot always think of little things, you know.”
Winifred said no more. She felt subdued and ashamed. How could the swallow know what she had been thinking about that day?
The next time the swallow paused it was again in a room. A lady was half lying upon a sofa, and she did not look ill, only unhappy. She had books and flowers and all sorts of nice things round her, but she was not doing anything.
“Who is that?” asked Winifred. “Why does she look unhappy?”