When I reached the door, I turned and looked back. Jack was gazing wistfully after me, his eyes were full of tears.
“Rose, you’re a brick,” said the poor fellow; and then he turned his face to the wall. I closed the door very softly and went down to the drawing-room where mother sat.
I went up to her, and took the mending out of her thin, white hands, and bending down kissed her.
“What is the matter, Rose, my dear?” she said. We were not a family for embraces, and she wondered at this mark of demonstration. When she raised her eyes to my face, she could not restrain a little cry, for with all my efforts I did not absolutely conceal the marks of strong emotion.
“Mother,” I said, “you must put away your mending for the present.”
“Why so, my dear? I am particularly anxious to get on with this invisible darning, for I wish to begin to refront Jack’s shirts to-morrow.”
“The shirts must keep, mother. Jack wants you for something else just now—he is very ill.”
“Ill? Poor fellow, he did look as if he had a bad headache.”
“Yes, I think we ought to send for Mr Ray.”
“What! For the doctor? Because of a headache? Rose, dear, are you getting fanciful?”