“No, darling, no,” and it seemed as if Mrs. Digby’s voice shook. “They will gather a long while yet. What makes my little girl think so much of the swallows?”
“I don’t quite know, mamma. Sometimes I can’t help fancying that everything will be different when the swallows have gone.”
The mother kissed her child very fervently and tenderly, and left the room without another word.
To her surprise she found Charley lingering about the door, as if waiting for her. His face wore a troubled look, and he did not speak at once, but followed his mother down the passage, and did not speak until they reached the window at the end of the corridor near to the staircase, which looked over the water-meadows.
“Mamma,” he said then, looking up into her face, “have you been crying?”
“Just a tear or two, my boy. What makes you ask?”
Charley was nearly fifteen, and old enough to have been made anxious by one or two things he had heard and seen of late.
“Were you crying about Winnie? Mamma, is there anything the matter with Winnie?”
“Your little sister is in a very precarious state of health, Charley.”
“I know, mamma, she is pale and thin and weak; but she was much worse last winter.”