“She isn’t your little sister. How do you suppose I feel?” he demanded. “There never was such a kid as Anne. Joan isn’t in the same class, Antony, no matter what you say. More brains than all the other children in town put together, and never a fresh thing about her; sweet, obedient, pious! And I wouldn’t forgive her for a clever little trick that I ought to have enjoyed; yes, been proud to think she was smart enough to work it! Wouldn’t kiss her! Oh, my Lord! Anne, Anne! Told her to go stand in the river for penance, when she was so sorry, the little saint! Wouldn’t kiss her!”
Down went Peter’s head again and his shoulders heaved.
“See here, old chap, we haven’t lost her yet. You know what to do. Get out and do it. I believe she’ll be given back to us,” said Antony, his arm laid across poor Peter as tenderly as a woman’s. Kit watched and wondered, but Peter understood Antony. He drew his arm across his eyes, got his cap, and went out without a word.
Kit went miserably home. Aside from his sense of personal loss, it seemed to him unbearable that a child so young, so vital as little Anne should die. He had not meditated so profoundly on the mysteries of life in all the brief time that he had lived it as he found himself doing on his way home that afternoon. He distinctly shrank from going into the metallic brightness of his aunt and Helen’s presence from the sublime patience that he divined in Mrs. Berkley, and the solemnity of little Anne, clothed in the mystery of suffering and death.
He was met at the door by Helen, her face all gentle commiseration.
“I am sure that you have nothing good to tell me, Kit, but Anne?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Not either sort of news. Of course there’s a chance she may pull through.”
“Kit, don’t feel so sorry. I can’t bear to see it. But if you are sorry don’t exclude me as you do. What makes you? I’m not absolutely inhuman!” Helen smiled, but she looked hurt.
“She’s a nice child. You don’t like children,” said Kit, dangerously near to rudeness. “It’s not excluding, Nell. What’s the use of talking about things, anyway?”
Kit went upstairs, leaving Helen where she stood. As he went he was conscious that he would not have asked Anne Dallas what was the use of talking about things; he knew that it would be the greatest comfort to him to go to her and discuss little Anne and his recent thoughts. But, he reminded himself, this was explained by Anne’s love for the sick child.