Oh, weak, soft-hearted Mr. Wycherly! Against his will, against his better judgment, the words slipped out.
Jane-Anne, white but radiant, lay back exhausted on her pillows. Mr. Wycherly stood up to go. "Promise me," he said, "that you won't worry, that you will eat and sleep as much as you can, that you will do everything that your good aunt and the doctor bid you, and that you will try to be happy and at home."
Jane-Anne sat forward again. "Mr. Wycherly, sir," she said breathlessly, "you won't forget, you will try and make aunt keep me? Oh, I have cried and cried, and prayed and prayed, and I don't think God can expect much more of a little girl like me, do you?"
"Crying is absolutely forbidden. You must promise me that you won't cry any more."
"I promise," she said meekly, and lay back on her pillows again. "But you, too; you won't forget?"
"I certainly shall not forget. Now I must really go."
He had reached the door, when an imperative cry from the bed stopped him.
"You haven't said it."
"Said what?" and Mr. Wycherly trembled lest she should force him to swear then and there that she should not go back to the Bainbridge.
"What you said yesterday afternoon. Please say it, and then perhaps He will."