For years Mrs. Pell had leaned upon Sydney. In an emergency like the present, he would be just the one to whom she would go for counsel. And now—he had failed her utterly.
“What did you say to him, mother?” asked Roy after a while. “Were—were you kind to him?”
“I tried to be. I tried to remember that he had done all for our sakes, but I feel like a ship without a rudder.”
Roy left his seat near Eva and slipped into a chair next his mother, who had bowed her head on the desk in front of her.
She had been writing a note to a charitable society of which she was a member. The check she was to send them lay all signed, ready to be inclosed.
“Moms,” whispered Roy, using the pet name Rex had invented and pressing one of his mother’s hands tightly in his, “you have us. We are growing fast. I am sure we shall get along.”
“Bless you, my boy.” His mother kissed him on the forehead, then lifted her eyes reverently, as she added: “Yes, and I must not forget that there is One who is always a friend to the needy. And now, children, we must go to bed. To-morrow we will decide what to do.”
Roy stopped at Rex’s door, went in and found his brother tossing in bed.
“Have you told the girls?” he asked.
“Yes.”