“Poor little kid! I wonder if she remembers! Hand on your shoulder, like mine?”
“Yes.”
“King, love her, please! I hate to think of that little, lonesome girl, floating around with you there—and maybe loving you always—and you forgetting her!”
“Always loved her, Billee. Always shall. Loved her on the train coming up from Georgia with the old nurse. I had left my one little sister sleeping under the liveoaks. She looked like her. Went out on the deck that night, not to see the lights—I was afraid she might fall in the water.”
“Oh!—Oh!—Oh!” wailed Billee.
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“Cry—cry—crying—a little, I guess, King.”
“Don’t cry.”
“But it breaks—my heart!”
“Why, what is it?” Silence. And then: