“Was he a young man?”
“Not a man at all—only a child, a little boy,” answered Mr. Guildford, but the “only” seemed to reproach him as he uttered it. “Just at the very first I had faint hopes, but they soon died away. He had often been ill before, had had frightful attacks of croup every now and then. But this was bronchitis. There wasn’t a chance for him. Poor little chap!”
“How old was he?” asked Bessie, her bright blue eyes filling with tears.
“Above five, I think, barely as much. Dr. Farmer sent for me when they got very much alarmed, late yesterday. There wasn’t time to send to town, and they wanted a second opinion. Dr. Farmer is getting old now and easily upset—he was glad to have some one else for his own sake too. He could not have watched it to the end; he had quite broken down before I got there.”
“Was he an only child? How will his mother bear it, poor thing!” said Mrs. Crichton.
“She is not there. She is abroad somewhere—in India, I think,” answered Mr. Guildford.
He was silent for a moment or two and sat gazing into the fire. “What strange creatures women are!” he exclaimed suddenly. “What mixtures of strength and weakness! I wonder if it is at moments of intense feeling that one sees the true nature of women—or is it that feeling ennobles them temporarily, makes shallow ones seem deep, and selfish ones heroic, and cold-hearted ones devoted?”
Bessie felt curious to know what had called forth these remarks. It was not often that her brother troubled himself with speculations concerning her sex.
“What has put that into your head, Edmond?” she asked. “Are you thinking of any one in particular?”
“Oh! no—it was just a reflection on women in general,” he said carelessly.