“We have sent for the best man in Vienna.”
Greta shook her head.
“But you are clever, Dr. Edmund; and you are afraid.”
“He is brave,” said Dawney; “we must all be brave, you know. You too!”
“Brave?” repeated Greta; “what is it to be brave? If it is not to cry and make a fuss—that I can do. But if it is not to be sad in here,” she touched her breast, “that I cannot do, and it shall not be any good for me to try.”
“To be brave is to hope; don't give up hope, dear.”
“No,” said Greta, tracing the pattern of the sunlight on her skirt. “But I think that when we hope, we are not brave, because we are expecting something for ourselves. Chris says that hope is prayer, and if it is prayer, then all the time we are hoping, we are asking for something, and it is not brave to ask for things.”
A smile curved Dawney's mouth.
“Go on, Philosopher!” he said. “Be brave in your own way, it will be just as good as anybody else's.”
“What are you going to do to be brave, Dr. Edmund?”