“Is anything wrong, eh, old girl? Come, tell me what it is.”
With a vacant stare she shook her head. No, there was nothing to tell.
“Come, you can tell me all about it, you know that.”
“Oh—I feel a little miserable.”
“What about?”
Then with a pretty little pout, “Oh—I don’t know. I have been a little nervous all day.”
He laughed—his usual soft, sonorous laugh.
“You and your nerves! Come, sis, cheer up. You are such good company when you are not so melancholy; you must not give yourself over to these fits.” He felt conscious that his eloquence would not hold out to argue the matter further, so with a laugh he concluded, “Will you have a drop of grog, sis?”
“Thank you—yes, just a sip out of your glass.”
She turned to him, and laughing in his fair beard, he raised the steaming glass to her lips. Through the half-closed eyelids he saw a tear glistening, but she kept it back. All at once, with sudden determination, he set down his glass and grasped her hands.