"It can never be the same about them," he said. "They all believed. But now they are sorry."
He sighed deeply, and then smiled like sunshine.
"It was like you to bring me the news. Dear child, where is your hat, and why did you run so fast? You might have fallen and hurt yourself. Do you remember the day you turned your ankle and wouldn't let me carry you?"
"I'm not such a little fool as I used to be," she said. Her face was getting whiter and whiter.
"You are hurt!" he exclaimed.
"Yes," she said, "it's that same blessed ankle. I was so excited over the good news that I didn't mind at first, but now—I—I think I'll have to sit down and rest it."
The Poor Boy knew better than to give her a helping hand. When you touch them, they vanish.
She sank down with a little moan.
"How am I going to get back to the house?" she said. "I'm sure I don't know."
"I'll send for a motor."