“A letter,” said Rose. “Oh! Graeme look!”
But Graeme was past looking by this time. Her brothers were startled and tried to raise her.
“Don’t, Arthur,” said Rose; “let her lie down. She will be better in a little. Harry get some water.”
Poor, wee Rosie! Her hands trembled among the fastenings of Graeme’s dress, but she knew well what to do.
“You don’t mean that she has been like this before?” said Arthur, in alarm.
“Yes, once or twice. She is tired, she says. She will soon be better, now.”
In a minute Graeme opened her eyes, and sat up. It was nothing, she said, and Arthur was not to be frightened; but thoroughly frightened Arthur was, and in a little while Graeme found herself placed in the doctor’s hands. It was a very kind, pleasant face that bent over her, but it was a grave face too, at the moment. When Graeme repeated her assurance that she was not ill, but only overcome with the heat and weariness, he said these had something to do with it, doubtless, and spoke cheerfully about her soon being well again; and Arthur’s face quite brightened, as he left the room with him. Rose followed them, and when her brother’s hand was on the door, whispered,—
“Please, Arthur, may I say something to the doctor? I think it is partly because Graeme is homesick.”
“Homesick!” repeated the doctor and Arthur in a breath.
“Perhaps not homesick exactly,” said Rose, eagerly addressing her brother. “She would not go back again you know; but everything is so different—no garden, no hills, no pond. And oh! Arthur, don’t be vexed, but we have no Janet nor anything here.”