It cleared up in the afternoon and she ran over to the Denvers’ house to see if Chris was up yet and could play.
Emma, the parlormaid, was firm in her refusal to admit Easter.
“Master Chris is that bad, so feverish it might turn to anything, the doctor says. Miss Radley said no one was to come in, and she haven’t left Master Chris a single minute herself. It’s dreadful, and us all in such trouble about the major, too.”
“You haven’t lost him, have you?” Easter asked.
“Good gracious! no, not yet, so far as we knows. But he’s as bad as bad, and,” she added, “if anything was to happen to Master Chris and his ma away an’ all—but, there! I can’t bear to think of it. You run along home, Miss Easter. I’ll tell Miss Radley you came to ask.”
And the door was shut in Easter’s face.
Next day the news was no better. Even Easter’s mother could not keep from her the universal anxiety as to Major Denver. He had been their doctor for a year before the war, and in that time had managed to endear himself to everybody.
It was said he had taken a country practice because he thought the bracing air would be good for Chris. Every soul in the village felt a special right to know the latest news of the major, and Miss Radley had the telegrams pinned on the front door as soon as she got them.
All day long people came up the drive to read these telegrams, and presently there was a bit of white paper as well, concerning Chris, for the doctor’s little son lay grievously sick at home, while his father, they feared, was dying of his wounds in France. A white-capped hospital nurse had come to help Miss Radley.
Easter was a very lonely little girl. She felt, too, that in some inexplicable fashion she was shut out from things, that more was happening than she was allowed to know; and, worst of all, Chris had so entirely disappeared that she began to fear that he, too, was lost, and they were afraid to tell her.