When she came to the picture of the little, grave-eyed chap Nanny stole it without a moment's hesitation. And it acted like a charm. Lying warm above her heart it dulled the longing and helped her to laugh again, gayly, saucily even.
She had brave minutes when with her eyes on the picture she told herself that it wasn't the man she loved but this grave-eyed boy in him that had never grown up or died. She had always loved children, she told herself, so there was no shame in that. But the next minute her heart would call up the image of this boy grown up, a boy still, but a boy with a man's eyes and a man's dormant strength. Being an honest soul Nanny flushed and cried for the mother she could not remember.
Still as the days went by Nanny found that the little fellow stood gallantly by her. Somehow he helped her to grow used to the pain and the burning joy of her secret. He helped her to endure the questions and the teasing that is the lot of girls as lovely as Nanny.
He helped her to laugh when she felt like crying. And best of all he steadied her when Cynthia's son was by, when her heart was beating horribly and her head was dizzy with happiness and fright.
She was a new girl to the boy from India. He was no longer afraid of her. She no longer said bright, sharp things that puzzled and hurt him. She was quiet and kind and frequently now exceedingly ill at ease.
One day while they were walking along the road he stopped suddenly and looked at her.
"Are you tired?" he asked abruptly.
"No—I'm not tired," Nanny said a little surprised at the question.
"Are you ill?" he next wanted to know.
"Ill? Why—no. Not that I know of."