The evening had closed in by the time Frances reached the Park again. She hastily changed her wet things, and went at once to Bertie's room, but her heart misgave her, as, going down the long corridor, she saw Anne seated on the ledge of the large window, with the traces of tears on her face.
"I am not too late?" she asked.
"I don't know," replied Anne. "He is very, very weak. I could not bear to stay."
Frances went on, Robert, as well as Amy, was in the room. He moved a little on one side to allow Frances to come near. "Bertie, my boy," he said, "Missy has brought you Kitty."
Frances leant over, and placed it beside him.
He opened his eyes feebly, then took the kitten so full of life, and nestled it to his side.
"Bertie is very sick," he said, weakly, as he tried to murmur his thanks.
This was the first time he had spoken of feeling ill. How pitifully his little childish words smote upon the hearts of his sad, sorrowing parents.
"Bertie is very sick," he said again. "I think Bertie is going to die. Poor Bertie!"
His mother's tears fell like rain. "God will take care of my boy for me," she said. "My boy, my precious Bertie!"