“Send this c’lect too, I s’pose,” she called after the car as it departed.
“Yes, all right, anything,” answered Lyman Gage, wearily sinking back in the seat. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”
“You are sick!” said Mary Amber anxiously; “and we are going to get right home. Miss Marilla will be wild.”
The soldier sat up holding his precious check.
“I’ll have to ask you to let me out,” he said, trying to be dignified under the heavy stupor of weariness that was creeping over him. “I’ve got to get to a bank.”
“Oh, must you, to-day? Couldn’t we wait till to-morrow or till you feel better?” asked Mary anxiously.
“No, I must go now,” he insisted doggedly.
“Well, there’s a bank on the next corner,” she said; “and it must be about closing-time.” She shoved her sleeve back, and glanced at her watch. “Just five minutes of three. We’ll stop, but you’ll promise to hurry, won’t you? I want to get you home. I’m worried about you.”
Lyman Gage cast her another of those wondering looks like a child unused to kindness suddenly being petted. It made her feel as if she wanted to cry. All the mother in her came to her eyes. She drew up in front of the bank, and got out after him.
“I’ll go in with you,” she said. “They know me over here, and it may save you trouble.”