"I can't tell you, Floyd, because I promised her I would not."
The boy writhed under the warm blankets.
"She's always makin' folks promise not to tell things," he moaned. "It's because you're mad at her, that's what makes her cry so, and I can't do anything for her. Can't you, Brother Horace?"
"She won't let me, Floyd."
"Did ye ask her?"
"Many times."
"Would she let ye if I asked her?"
"No, Floyd, you must not! I promised her that I would not speak with you about her unhappiness." Horace ejaculated his reply so emphatically that Floyd looked at him curiously.
"But I can't die and leave her that way, and I'm a goin' soon. Sometimes my heart jest stands still, and won't start again till I lose all my breath. A feller can't live that way, can he, Brother Horace?"
"It will pass off; of course, it will—it must!" Horace looked into the worn, suffering young face, and a resolution took possession of him.