It was not I, after all, who told the boys Hannah was the person who gave them that piece of information. I did not come downstairs for the watery stew which she had prepared for them. Doubtless she would tell the boys that I had swallowed the spirit of that stew and left them the poor material body. She would make the most of my conduct, for she was very angry with me. But by-and-by there came a knock at my door, and I heard Alex’s voice, and he said, “Oh, do open the door and let me in! Please let me in, Rachel.”
He so seldom called me by that name that I got up, went to the door, and flung it open. Alex’s face was very pale, and his hair was rumpled up over his forehead, but he had not been crying at all. I don’t suppose boys do cry much; but the moment I glanced at him I knew that Hannah had told him.
He took my hand.
“My word,” he said, “how cold you are! And I can scarcely see your eyes. You’ll have a bad inflammation if you give way like this. Where’s the use? Come along downstairs.”
He took my hand, and we raced down together. When we got down I clung to him and said, “Kiss me, Alex.”
“Why, of course I will, Dumps.”
He kissed me twice on my forehead, and I knew by the trembling of his lips that he was feeling things a good bit.
“Hannah has told you?” I said.
“She has. But she isn’t coming upstairs again to-day.”
“What do you mean by that?”