She did not answer him. Indeed, there was no occasion. He did not seem at all afraid of the punishment, whatever it might be. When she had tied on his shoe, he slipped from her, and flung himself on the sofa beside his brother. He did not mean to be rough with him, but the little fellow uttered a peevish cry, and pushed him away.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. Don’t cry.”
His little brown hand was laid softly on Claude’s pale cheek, and their brown curls mingled as their heads were laid on the same pillow. What a contrast they presented! Christie could hardly persuade herself these were the little lads that she and the Lee children used to admire so much—partly because they were so pretty, and partly because they were so much alike. They were alike still. One could hardly have told, as they lay together, to which head the tangled mass of brown curls belonged. Their eyes were the same, too, but little Claude’s were larger, and they drooped with a look of weariness and pain sad to see in any eyes, but very, very sad to see in the eyes of a child. His forehead was larger, too,—or it seemed larger, above his thin, pale cheeks. But not even his wan cheeks or weary eyes struck so painfully to Christie’s heart as did the sight of his little, wasted hand, white as the pillow on which it lay. It seemed whiter and more wasted still when it was raised for a moment to stroke his brother’s rosy cheek. Oh, how very sad it seemed! And his mother! She closed her eyes, and laid herself back in her chair, with a sigh that was almost a groan.
Clement was very gentle, or he meant to be very gentle, with his brother. He stroked his cheeks, and kissed him, calling him “little brother,” and “poor Claudie.” And the little fellow hushed his peevish cry, and tried to smile for a moment.
“I am going into town,” said Clement; “and then we are going to spend the day at Aunt Barbara’s. They are making hay there. May Claude go? It would make him quite well to play among the hay with me and Fanny and Stephen. Mamma, mayn’t he go? Tudie, do let Claudie go.”
“Mamma, mamma, let me go. Let Mattie dress me. Oh, I want to go among the hay!”
He came down from the sofa, and went towards his mother as fast as his trembling limbs could carry him. She met him and received him in her arms.
“My darling cannot go. He is not strong enough. Oh, Gertrude, how could you let Clement come in here?”
“Mamma, I am quite well. I should be quite well if I could play among the hay, as we used to do.”
Memories of health and strength enjoyed in summer sunshine were doubtlessly stirring at the boy’s heart, to which he could give no utterance. The look of wistful entreaty in his weary eyes went to his mother’s heart.