"Yes, but I must. I am very sad. I wish I needn't send him; but the gentleman who called to-day is his father's uncle, and his nearest relation in the world. Connie, you must bring Ronald home. I will go with you myself to fetch him."
"Oh, ma'am," said Connie, beginning to sob, "it 'ull break his 'eart."
"No, Connie," answered Mrs. Anderson. "Hearts like Ronald's—brave and true and faithful—don't break; they endure. Besides that, the old gentleman—Mr. Harvey—will not be unkind to him; I am certain of that."
So Connie and Mrs. Anderson returned side by side to the house where Giles and Ronald were waiting for them.
When they entered they saw a picture which Mrs. Anderson could never forget: the dying boy, with his radiant face, lying on the bed half-supported by pillows, the crimson and gold coverlet making a wonderful patch of color; and Ronald, the tears still wet on his cheeks, but his eyes very bright, his lips firm, his whole attitude that of a soldier's child.
The moment he saw Mrs. Anderson he went up to her.
"I am ashamed," he said. "Giles has told me the son of a V. C. man should not be a coward. It is all right—I am going back."
Mrs. Anderson pressed the boy's hand.
"I knew you wouldn't disappoint me, Ronald," she said. Then she turned and talked a little longer to Giles. She saw how weak the child was, and knew, with a woman's perception, what a very little time longer he had to live in this old world.
"My sister's in the country, ma'am," said Giles in his brightest manner. "She's looking for a little house for her an' me—two winders in our room—that's wot Sue an' me thought we 'ud like—and iverythink wery purty. Sue may be back any day. She's takin' a good bit of a time a-lookin' for the 'ouse; but she'll find it, an' then I'll go there."