'It's Cecile's cake,' he sobbed into his father's ear. 'I want to give it her.'
And in fact, after his onslaught upon her, Cecile had dropped the offending cake, which he had instantly picked up the moment before Louie struck him. He had held it tight gripped ever since, and repentance was busy in his small heart.
David thought a moment.
'Come with me, Sandy,' he said at last, and, wrapping up the child in an old shawl that hung near, he carried him off to Louie's door. 'Louie!' he called, after his knock, in a low voice, for he was uncomfortably aware that his household was on the watch for developments.
For a while there was no answer. Sandy, absorbed in the interest of the situation, clung close to his father and stopped crying.
At last Louie suddenly flung the door wide open.
'What do you want?' she said defiantly, with the gesture and bearing of a tragic actress. She was, however, deadly white, and David, looking past her, saw that Cecile was lying wide awake in her little bed.
'Sandy wants to give Cecile her cake,' he said quietly, 'and to tell her that he is sorry for striking her.'
He carried his boy up to Cecile. A smile flashed over the child's worn face. She held out her little arms. David, infinitely touched, laid down Sandy, and the children crooned together on the same pillow, he trying to stuff the cake into Cecile's mouth, she gently refusing.
'She's ill,' said Louie abruptly, 'she's feverish—I want a doctor.'