Gifford was almost always with the little gentleman, and scarcely left him, even to walk through the garden to the grassy street with Lois. On Sunday, however, late in the afternoon, he went home with her; for Mr. Dale, with whom she had come, was going to sit awhile with Mr. Denner, and Gifford felt he could be spared.
The hour was full of that peculiar Sunday afternoon quiet which seems to subdue even the crickets and the birds. There was a breath of fragrance from some fresh-cut grass, still wet from a noon thunder shower, which had left the air crystal-clear and fresh. Their shadows stretched far ahead along the road, where the dust was still damp, though the setting sun poured a flood of yellow light behind them. Lois walked as though very tired; she scarcely noticed her companion, and did not speak except to answer his questions.
"Isn't there any change in Mrs. Forsythe?" he asked, with anxious sympathy.
Lois shook her head. "No," she said.
"Hasn't the rector gotten word to her son yet?"
"No," Lois said again. "We telegraphed twice, but he seems to be out of town, and nobody knows his address."
Gifford made no comment.
"I wish he would come!" the girl cried passionately. "It would be a relief to have him reproach me."
"I hope there will be no need of reproaches. I do hope his mother will get well."
"Oh, no, no," Lois said, "she won't! I know it."