There was a sudden, startled expression in the girl’s tear-filled eyes, but, as the lad knew, the tears were there merely because of self-pity.
“Dies?” she repeated rather blankly. No one whom she had ever known had died, and she had seemed to think that those near her were immune. “Is Ma Mere going to die?”
The boy followed up what he believed to be an advantage by saying gently, “We would be all alone in the world, Gwyn, if our mother left us, and, oh, it would be so lonely.”
Suddenly and most unexpectedly the girl put her arms on the table and, burying her head upon them, she sobbed bitterly. Harold was moved to unusual tenderness. He put his arm lovingly about his sister as he hastened to say, reassuringly, “Miss Dane, the nurse, told me this morning that Mother’s one chance of recovery lay in not being excited in any way. Her fever must be kept down. We’ll help, won’t we, Gwyn?”
The girl sat up and wiped her eyes with her dainty handkerchief.
“I suppose so,” she said dully. The boy, watching her, could not tell what emotion had caused the outburst of grief. He decided not to follow it up, but to permit whatever seeds had been sown to sprout as they would.
Springing up, he exclaimed: “Snapping turtles! I forgot something I brought for you. It’s in the car.” He ran back, found the box of choice candies, returned and presented them. Gwyn was still gazing absently ahead of her. “Thanks,” she said, but without evidence of pleasure.
The boy stood in the vine-hung doorway gazing down at her. “Gwyn,” he said, “if you want to come home, I’ll be over after you tomorrow. Just say the word.”
“I prefer to wait until my mother sends for me,” was the cold answer. The lad went away, fearing that he had accomplished little.
It was five-thirty when the “bug” again turned into the long lane that led to the farmhouse near Rocky Point.