"Not Alicia!" my voice broke out from the turmoil of my thoughts like the voice in a dream breaking the barriers of sleep.
"Eh?" said Pendleton faintly.
"Did you call, Uncle Ranny?" Alicia turned and asked in a clear, steady voice.
"Yes, Alicia," I struggled for control. "Here is Mr. Pendleton—come to see the children." I meant to say "his children," but I could not.
The whole sickly-colored evening seemed to shudder at my words. The children seemed like wraiths under the tree to shudder away from the intruding material world.
In a moment—what a tragic moment—Pendleton was bending toward them, peering, peering into their white, frightened faces. Then his gaze settled on Alicia and hung there for a space.
"This must be Randolph," he finally turned to the eldest boy, "grown—grown up—isn't it?" and his arms stirred forward.
"Yes, sir," the boy answered hoarsely and put out his hand.
"And this—can this be baby Laura?" Laura hung her head then raised it bravely and with shy resolution held out her hand. Pendleton took it and kissed her clumsily on the cheek.
Jimmie, hanging back, clung to Alicia's skirt and watched the proceedings with troubled stealth from behind her.