He gave a sort of whistle of dismay 'Struck down with fever, eh, Willie?—that's bad. And father won't be home till night?' he said, biting the end of his whip and staring at the door. 'Well, you'll have to hold the nag for me, lad, that's what you'll have to do.'
And he got off and went into the house. By and by he came out again with my mother, and they stood together talking earnestly. I was leading the pony up and down on the grass, but now and then I overheard a few of their words.
'You must,' Farmer Foster said once or twice.
My mother shook her head: 'I cannot turn the poor creature out to die.'
Something I heard about 'very catching,' and mother said 'hush,' and looked towards me.
Suddenly I saw the old farmer take her in his arms and kiss her. He came and took the pony away from me, telling me to go to my mother.
'Is the poor soldier better, mother?'
'No. He is very ill, Willie,' she said, putting both her hands in her old fond way on to my head; 'so ill that I must send my boy away. No, Willie, you cannot stay. Farmer Foster is going to take you home with him.'
I could not cry when I looked at her face. She was so sorry for me. I knew she would not have sent me away if she could have helped it. I pressed my two hands on to my breast and looked at the inscription over the well. My mother's eyes followed mine and she smiled. Perhaps to go away quietly from her would be more than 'a cup of cold water.'
She took my hand and we went silently to where Farmer Foster stood by the pony waiting for us.