Rosie made a brave stand against the tears and sobs that were rising in spite of her, but she was fain to hide her face on her brother’s arm as he drew her toward him, and sat down on the sofa. The doctor sat down, too.
“Why, Rosie! My poor, wee Rosie! what has happened to my merry little sister?”
“I thought the doctor ought to know, and you must not tell Graeme. She does not think that I know.”
“Know what?” asked Arthur.
“That she is so sad, and that the time seems long. But I have watched her, and I know.”
“Well, I fear it is not a case for you, doctor,” said Arthur, anxiously.
But the doctor thought differently. There was more the matter with Graeme than her sister knew, though the home-sickness may have something to do with it; and then he added,—
“Her strength must have been severely tried to bring her to this state of weakness.”
Arthur hesitated a moment.
“There was long illness in the family—and then death—my sister’s first, and then my father’s. And then I brought the rest here.”