Georgia was silent—she had scarcely heard him—she was thinking of something else. She wanted to ask about Charley, but—she did not like to.
"Well," he said, with a smile, reading her thoughts like an open book, "and what is little Georgia thinking of so intently?"
"I—I—of nothing," she was going to say, and then she checked herself. It would be a falsehood, and Georgia as proud of never having told a lie in her life.
"I was thinking of your brother Charley," she said, looking up with one of her bright, defiant flashes.
"Yes," he said, quietly, "and what of him?"
"I should like to know how he is."
"He is ill—seriously ill. Charles is delicate, and his ankle is even worse hurt than we supposed. Last night he was feverish and sleepless, and this morning he was not able to get up."
A hot flush passed over Georgia's face, retreating instantaneously, and leaving her very pale, with a wild, uneasy, glitter in her large dark eyes. Oh! If he should die, she thought. It was through her fault he had hurt himself first, and then she had been obstinate, and would not forgive him. Perhaps he would die, she would never be able to tell him how sorry she was for what she had done. She laid her hand on Richmond's arm, and, looking up earnestly in his face, said, in a voice that trembled a little in spite of herself: "Do—do you think he will die?"
"No," he said, gravely, "I hope—I think not; but poor Charley is really ill, and very lonely, up there alone."