She threw open the blinds. She could not bear to think her friend was sitting alone in the dark.
“Cheer up, Birdie, I shall be better soon,” said the girl at sight of Chee’s sorrowful face. But even while she tried to speak gaily, she looked so pale and worn it saddened the little cousin.
Chee started up-stairs, then turning, came slowly back and hesitatingly whispered, “I’ve told Him all about it. He’s surely heard. It’ll be all right pretty soon.”
“Yes, my comforter,” was the only reply.
Up in her own room, how Chee longed for Daddy Joe’s fiddle. “I know I could make real music to-night—I know I could,” she told herself. “I am sure it would be real, but it would never do; I mustn’t, cause then my secret wouldn’t be mine any more.”
But the temptation increased, until she resolved to bring out her treasure and look at it. “Just look at it and hold it.” That would give a little joy.
CHAPTER VIII.
ABOUT sundown, as the people of Chesterfield say, the train drew into the village. At the station a gentleman stepped off, left his travelling-case at the hotel near, and sauntered up the street.
“Here, Bub,” he called to an urchin who, with his hands in his pockets, his legs apparently too long for his trousers, stood eyeing the stranger from the store doorway, “can you tell me if there is a person by the name of Reuben Whittaker residing in this town?”
“Guess you want—Miss Mean’s—brother Reuben—don’t you?” he replied intermittently, while severely intent upon chewing gum. “She lives—out—to the Bend.”