Neil went hastily toward the room where his father had been carried, and found his sister listening by the door.
“You here, Isabel?” he said.
“Yes, dear,” she whispered in broken tones. “Let me go in and see poor papa now.”
“No, my child, not yet.”
“But, Neil, I am not a child now. You have let Aunt Anne be with him.”
“Well, she is older, and experienced, dear. Pray be patient. You will be helping me then.”
“Yes, Neil,” she said with a sigh, and she reached up and kissed him.
“That is my darling sister,” he said tenderly. “But, Neil, dear, one word—pray tell me the truth. Will papa get better?”
“Heaven only knows, dear,” he said solemnly. “He is very badly hurt.”
He passed through the door, and closed it after him almost without a sound, and then stopped to gaze on the scene before him, feeling a glow of warmth in his breast toward his Aunt, who, in their freedom from anxiety, had always seemed to him a weak, self-indulgent woman. But self was evidently forgotten now as she knelt beside her brother’s couch, holding one of his hands against her breast, and watching the pale, slightly drawn face as if her life depended upon her noting the slightest change.