“Die!” muttered Sheldon. “What’s the matter with him?”
Slowly the tears welled up and spilled over, running unchecked down her cheeks. Sheldon, little used to women, shifted uneasily, not knowing what to do, feeling that he should do something. Napoleon, wiser in matters of this sort, made his way to her shoulder and rubbed his soft body sympathetically against her cheek.
“Open the door,” begged Paula. “Be good to me and open the door. Let me go to him.”
“You would not know where to find him,” he protested.
“Oh, yes, I would! I would go to him, running.”
“He is sick?” he asked.
Other tears followed the first, unnoticed by the girl. Sheldon thought of the Graham twins: they cried that way some time, only more noisily. They kept their eyes open wide and looked at you, and the tears came until you wondered where they all came from.
“Two times,” she said, her voice trembling, “I have thought he was dead!” She shuddered. “I have seen dead things. Oh, it is terrible! This morning I thought he was dead! He did not answer when I talked with him. And he lay still; I could not feel him breathe. I ran out. I was frightened. I cried out aloud. You heard me and ran to kill me, and I ran here. And he was not dead! Oh, I was glad! But if you do not let me go to him now—he will die—I know he will die. And I will be all alone—and it gets so still sometimes that I can’t breathe. Please let me go! Please be good to me!”
She came to him hurriedly. Napoleon sprang down and chattered in a corner. She caught up Sheldon’s hand and held it, her eyes lifted to his pleadingly.
“Don’t be bad to me,” she murmured over and over. “Be good to me, and let me go to him.”