“Did you?” Kit’s voice was as softly pitying as Peter’s mother’s could have been. “Is that what you do when——”
“It’s what you want to do. You can’t thank God yourself; you’re not big enough,” said Peter, simply. “What I came to tell you, Kit, is that Anne’s pulled through.”
“Living? Going to live?” Kit shouted.
Peter nodded. “The crisis was last night about one. She got through it like the little sport she is. The doctor stayed and helped all he could, but he said it was her heart won out. He says her heart’s fine this morning, so it’s sure she’ll get well with proper care. Think she won’t get it? The doctor doesn’t know how true what he said was. Say, don’t you think it was little Anne’s heart? She’s such a good kid and tries so hard to do what she’s told.”
Kit nodded. He found it hard to speak, but he patted Peter’s shoulder steadily, as though something would go wrong if he stopped.
“I knew how you’d feel,” said Peter, stretching his weary muscles. “Got to go on home now. I haven’t had anything to eat yet, and I don’t believe we had dinner; I can’t seem to remember. Isn’t that funny? I didn’t go to bed; I lit right out for the six—Mass at six, I mean. I’m going to serve that one for nine days; it takes something to get up at five. That’s a novena I’m going to make.”
Kit understood the boy’s elisions, being still a boy in spite of his approaching third decade.
“Well, Peter, I’d know you’d be thankful,” Kit said. “I am, too. I’d like it if I knew how to do something to show I’m thankful.”
“Oh, thankful!” Peter seemed to inhale the word. “Well, say! If Anne had died from standing in the river when I was such a fool and a brute as to say what I did to her—— Thankful! Well, say!”
The boy walked away, head up, but shoulders heaving.