"Don't talk of dying," he said a little uneasily; "we needn't think much about that yet—you and I, who are both so young."
"But a great many die young, Don, even younger than we are to-day."
She laid her hand upon his arm as she spoke, and looked into his eyes with tender sadness.
As he noted the words, the look, and the extreme attenuation of the little hand, a sharp pang shot through his heart. Could it be that Fan, his darling sister, was going to die? The thought had never struck him before. He knew that she was not strong, that the doctor was prescribing for her and taking her out driving every day, and he had perceived that the older members of the family, particularly his mother, were troubled about her, but had thought it was only permanent loss of health they feared.
But the idea of death was too painful to be encouraged, and he put it hastily from him. How could he ever do without Fan? There was less than two years between them, and they had always been inseparable. No, he would not allow himself to think of the possibility that she was about to pass away from him to "that bourne whence no traveller returns."
He was glad that Annis joined them at that moment in mirthful mood.
"What's so funny, Ann?" he asked, seeing a merry twinkle in her eye.
"Oh, just some of Aunt Wealthy's odd mistakes. She was talking about that first winter we spent here, when she was with us, you remember; she said, 'The weather was very cold; many's the time I've had hard work to get my hands up, my hair was so cold.' Then she was telling something her doctor in Lansdale told her about a very dirty family he was called to see. A child had the croup, and he made them put it into a hot bath; he was still there the next morning, and saw them getting breakfast; and telling about it Aunt Wealthy said, 'They used the water to make the coffee that the child was bathed in.'"
"The doctor stayed and took breakfast with them, I suppose?" said Don dryly.