"I ain't been sick, if that's what yer mean," returned the boy. "Mag is, though. She's worse to-day."
His manner was sullenly defiant, as if the warmly dressed stranger had in some way revealed herself as his enemy.
"Don't you know me, Bobby?"
"Not with yer face covered up like that, I don't."
She laughed nervously and raised her veil.
"Huh, it's you, is it? Funny—Mag's been a-talkin' about her princess lady all afternoon. What yer doin' here?"
Before this hollow-cheeked skeleton of a boy Helen Ward felt strangely like one who, conscious of guilt, is brought suddenly into the presence of a stern judge.
"Why, Bobby," she faltered, "I—I came to see you and Maggie—I was at the Interpreter's this afternoon and he told me—I mean something he said made me want to come."
"The Interpreter, he's all right," said the boy. "So's Mary Martin."
"Aren't you just a little glad to see me, Bobby?"