"Come, then, Baby Bunting," she said. "Mother will play with her boy; and poor Aunt Lilias must go to church alone."
She did not look at Esther, but went quietly away, holding the child's hand.
"What a brute I am," soliloquized the nurse. "And yet, she, poor young lady, how can she—how can she forget?"
Esther's home was in all its Sunday quiet when she reached it. Helps was having his afternoon siesta in the kitchen. Cherry was spending the day with the cousins who admired her recitations. Helps started out of his slumbers when his daughter came in.
"Essie," he said, "I'm glad you've come. That young man upstairs is very ill."
Esther felt her heart sinking down. She pressed her hand to her side.
"Is he worse, father?" she gasped.
"Oh, I don't know that he's worse; he's bad enough as it is, without going in for being worse. He coughs constant, and Cherry says he don't eat enough to keep a robin going. Esther, I wish to goodness we could get him out of this."
"Why so, father? He doesn't hurt you. Even Cherry can't name any fault in him."
"No, but suppose he was to die here. There'd be an inquest, maybe, and all kinds of questions. Well, I'm not hard-hearted, but I do wish he'd go."