“Then he’s ill?”
“I suppose so.”
The lady looked curiously at Easter. There was no doubt whatever that she was troubled, and yet ... how oddly the child spoke.
As they walked on, hand in hand, the lady said, more to herself than to Easter: “Does the road wind uphill all the way?”
“No,” said Easter; “when we get to the end of this it’s quite flat.”
When they came to the main road Easter took her hand out of the lady’s. “I know my way now,” she said. “Good-bye.”
The lady stooped and kissed her. “I should write to Chris if I were you,” she said. “He’ll probably like a letter very much when he’s a little better.”
Easter nodded and started to run, with that swift, long-distance, steady running that had so often worn out Chris; that was his admiration and his despair. And as she ran she repeated over and over again: “In sure and certain hope” all the way.
She would write to Chris directly she got in. Her copies were always neater than his.
But she couldn’t do it the minute she got in, for tea was ready, and her mother there to have it with her. Her mother looked pleased, too. Better news had come from France. There was hope that Major Denver might pull through, after all; and she had seen Miss Radley, and Chris’s temperature was nearly down to normal.