Somehow she had the idea that he was unhappy, for indeed he looked so even in his sleep, though perhaps this was to be accounted for by a paper of unfinished sums before him. Sympathy welled up in Isobel, who remembered the oppressions of the last governess—her of the inkpot. Sympathy, yes, and more than sympathy, for of a sudden she felt as she had never felt before. She loved the little lad as though he were her brother. A strange affinity for him came home to her, although she did not define it thus; it was as if she knew that her spirit was intimate with his, yes, and always had been and always would be intimate.
This subtle knowledge went through Isobel like fire and shook her. She turned pale, her nostrils expanded, her large eyes opened and she sighed. She did more indeed. Drawn by some over-mastering impulse she drew near to Godfrey and kissed him gently on the forehead, then glided back again frightened and ashamed at her own act.
Now he woke up; she felt his dark eyes looking at her. Then he spoke in a slow, puzzled voice, saying:
“I have had such a funny dream. I dreamed that a spirit came and kissed me. I did not see it, but I think it must have been my mother’s.”
“Why?” asked Isobel.
“Because no one else ever cared enough for me to kiss me, except Mrs. Parsons, and she has given it up now that the other boys are here.”
“Does not your father kiss you?” she asked.
“Yes, once a week, on Sunday evening when I go to bed. But I don’t count that.”
“No, I understand,” said Isobel, thinking of her own father, then added hastily, “it must be sad not to have a mother.”
“It is,” he answered, “especially when one is ill as I have been, and must lie so long in bed with pains in the head. You know I had an abscess in the ear and it hurt very much.”