Polly, with her heart bounding in relief, crept in, hanging to Jasper’s hand.
Roslyn looked up from the pile of pillows against which he leaned, and smiled a wan little smile that lighted up his white face.
“Well, Polly,” he said, “and Jasper; so you are not out this morning?”
“No,” said Jasper, seeing that Polly was past speaking; “but we shall drive to Pincian Hill this afternoon,” he added cheerily. “Well, old man,” going up to the couch that was drawn to the window, and taking up one of the long, thin fingers, “you’ll soon be running around with us, the best one of all.”
Roslyn smiled wearily, as if the effort were costing him much; then he shook his head.
“Jasper,” he said slowly, “I will tell you now,—as Phronsie is not in the room,—I shall never be well. Something will happen to separate us again.”
“Nonsense, old fellow!” exclaimed Jasper, not knowing what else to say, and taking refuge in those words. “Why, Grandpapa is willing now, you know, for you to marry Phronsie, else why would he bring her? You’re blue, Roslyn; that’s all.”
But Roslyn shook his head, and reiterated, “Something will surely happen to separate us again.”
Meanwhile Polly was clutching Mother Fisher’s gown. “O Mamsie!” she cried, “do come out of here; I must talk to you.”
“‘Must’ will have to give way now, Polly,” said Mrs. Fisher, quietly going on with her work of preparing a gruel by a spirit-lamp over in a corner; “for this ought to be done first.”