One day we had had a particularly nice walk, and when we came in Winny seemed so full of spirits that she hardly knew what to do with herself. We had a regular romp. In our romping, by accident, Winny knocked me down, for she was very strong, and I hurt my thumb. I was often silly about being hurt even a little, and I began to cry. Then Winny was so sorry; she kissed me and petted me, and gave me all her primrose wreaths and nosegays, so I soon left off crying. But somehow Winny’s high spirits had gone away. She shivered a little and went close to the fire to get warm, and soon she said she was tired, and we both went to bed. I remember that night so well. Winny did not seem sleepy when she was in bed, and I wasn’t either. She talked to me a great deal, and so nicely. It was not about when we should be big girls; it was about now things; about not being cross ever, and helping mamma, and about how pretty the lowers had looked, and how kind every one was to us, and how kind God must be to make every one so, and just at the last, as she was falling asleep, she said, “I do wonder so if there are primroses in heaven?” and then she fell asleep, and so did I.
When I woke in the morning, I heard voices talking beside me. It was one of our aunties. She was standing beside Winny, speaking to her. When she looked round and saw that I was awake, she said to me in a kind but rather a strange voice, “Meg, dear, put on your dressing-gown and run down to my room to be dressed. Winny has a headache, and I think she had better not get up to breakfast.”
I got up immediately and put on my slippers, and I was running out of the room when I thought of something and ran back. I put Winny’s slippers neatly beside her crib, and I said to her, “I have put them ready for you when you get up, Winny.” I wanted to do something for her you see, because I was so sorry about her headache. She did not speak, but she looked at me with such a look in her eyes. Then she said, “Kiss me, Meg, dear little Meg,” and I was just going to kiss her when she suddenly seemed to remember, and she drew back. “No, dear, you mustn’t,” she said; “aunty would say it was better not, because I’m not well.”
“Could I catch your headache, Winny?” I said, “or is it a cold you’ve got? You are not very ill, Winny?”
She only smiled at me, and just then I heard aunty calling to me to be quick. Winny’s little hand was hanging over the side of the bed. I took it, and kissed it—poor little hand, it felt so hot—“I may kiss your hand, mayn’t I?” I said, and then I ran away.
All that day I was kept away from Winny, playing by myself in rooms we did not generally go into. Sometimes my aunties would come to the door for a minute and peep at me, and ask me what I would like to play with, but it was very dull. My aunties’ maid took me a little walk in the garden, and she put me to bed, but I cried myself to sleep because I had not said good-night to Winny.
“Oh how I wish I had never been cross to her!” I kept thinking; and if only I could make other children understand how dreadful that feeling was, I am sure, quite sure, they would never, never quarrel.
The next day was just the same, playing alone, dinner alone, everything alone. I was so lonely. I never saw aunty till the evening, when it was nearly bed-time, and then she came to the room where I was, and I called out to her immediately to ask how Winny was.
“I hope she will soon be better,” she said. “And, Meg, dear, it is your bed-time now.”
The thought of going to bed again without Winny was too hard. I began to cry.