With motherly interest, Aunt Kate watched her niece through the kitchen window. Wise in the habits and customs of young women, she noted unfavorable portents. “Lands sakes,” she called to Helen, “Virginia is moping away in the hammock trying to make herself homesick. Hurry out and cheer the poor child up. Don’t let her get lonesome and unhappy.”
Helen obediently entered upon her kindly mission. Seating herself by her cousin, she put an arm about her and gave her cheery greeting, “Hello cuticomes. Of whom are you dreaming?”
“I am thinking of Charles Augustus.”
“He is a darling kid. I could eat him for candy.” The cannibalistic Helen smiled anything but fiercely at the thought of her tender prey.
“He is so sweet, Helen. That makes it sadder.”
“Makes what sad?”
“His lameness. It is dreadful. Think of it, Helen, never to be able to run and play in comfort.”
Shadows of unhappiness clouded the usual cheerfulness of Helen’s face. “It is terrible,” she sighed.
“All through his life,” the melancholy Virginia went on, “that crutch must be with him. Even when he proposes to a girl it will be beside him at her feet.”
“He could leave it in the hall with his hat.” Helen’s optimism attempted to thrust aside the enshrouding gloom.