“How is Rose?” Betty asked eagerly.
“About the same,” whispered Mrs. Harrow lugubriously. “Don’t say anything to her, Betty about—your clothes, you know, and your hair. You won’t, will you?”
“But, Mrs. Harrow, why not? What’s the harm?” the girl asked eagerly. And Mrs. Harrow stared harder than before.
“Why, Betty Pogany! to think of your asking that! I have always thought I could trust you just like an older person,” Mrs. Harrow whispered reproachfully, her eyes round and shocked. “You ought to know yourself that it would make Rose feel terribly, for you know how I try to keep her from thinking of old times.”
“But, Mrs. Harrow, what can she think of?” the girl asked warmly. “She’s got to think of something, Rose has, and there isn’t anything but old times, is there, unless you let me talk about things going on now?”
“She can think about the book I’m reading to her,” declared Rose’s mother severely. “It is sweet and soothing and—I think, Betty, you had just better go right on with it to-day instead of talking or singing. If you talk—your voice is different and I am sure it would excite her. And if you come to anything in the book that you think would excite her, just leave it out. But be very careful about it. Don’t stop or let her dream that you’re skipping anything. Rosy’s so nervous that——”
“Mama!” called Rose fretfully from the room beyond the passage, “why doesn’t Betty come in?”
“Poor darling, she’s very suspicious lately,” whispered Mrs. Harrow, and hurried Betty in.
“Betty had to stop in the entry a minute to—to fix something,” she explained nervously. “She came as soon as—it was all right, Rosy darling. I suppose it did seem long.”
“But, mama, what were you saying all that time?” demanded the hollow-eyed girl querulously. “I heard you whispering and whispering and whispering.”