“There isn’t a sound—I don’t think things can be so bad,” she said, and she closed the door behind her.
She had scarcely uttered the words before there came a tap, sharp and decisive, and Horace came in. The girls had never loved Horace; it must be owned that he had never done anything to make his young sisters care for him. He had kept them at a distance, and they had been somewhat afraid of him. They saw him now standing on the threshold with a tray in his hand, a tray which contained three cups of hot cocoa and three thick slices of bread and butter, and when they read, not disapproval, but sorrow in his face, it seemed to the three that their hearts threw wide their doors and let him in. Nesta gave a gasp; Molly choked down something. Ethel jumped up and sat down again and clasped her hands.
“I knew you’d be all feeling pretty bad,” said Horace, “so I came to sit with you for a minute or two, and here’s some cocoa. I made it myself. I’m not much of a cook, but drink it up, you three, and then let us talk.”
“Horace—oh, Horace—may we?”
“Drink it up first. Nesta, you begin. Why, whatever have you done to your face?”
“It got torn with some briars, but it doesn’t matter,” said Nesta. She rubbed her face roughly; she would have liked to make it smart. Any outward torture would be better than the fierce pain that was tugging at her heart. But the cocoa was hot and good, and warm as the summer night was, the three girls were chilly from shock and grief. Horace insisted on their eating and drinking, and then he sat down on a little sofa which was placed at the foot of the two small beds. He coaxed Nesta to sit next to him.
“Ethel, you come and sit on the other side,” he said, “and, Molly, here’s a chair for you just in front.”
He managed to take the three pairs of hands and to warm them all between his own. Then he said cheerily:
“Well, now, the very best thing we can do, is to make ourselves as useful as possible. We won’t think of the past.”
“But we must—we must, Horace,” said Molly. “And I’m the worst. I’d like to confess to you—I wish I might.”