Betty flew to her mother's side.
"Are you better, mother?" she asked eagerly. "I'm so glad you're awake, because I want to ask——" She paused abruptly, terrified by the strange look in those bright, feverish eyes. Her mother was looking straight into her face, but did not seem to see her.
"Jack, Jack," she kept repeating in her low, hoarse whisper, "Jack, I want you. I did wrong, I know, but you will forgive me. You will be good to the children, and love them for my sake, won't you, Jack?"
Betty's face was very white, her eyes big with terror.
"Jack," she gasped, running back to her brother's room, and flinging herself down beside him in an abandonment of grief and despair, "mother's talking in her sleep; she doesn't know what she's saying. She thinks Uncle Jack is here. Oh, what shall we do—what shall we do?"
"We'll have to get some one to come and see her," said Jack with decision. "Run down and ask Mrs. Hamilton to come; I know she will, she's so kind."
Betty sprang to her feet.
"I'll go right away," she said, "perhaps she'll know what to do. Mother says she can't afford to have a doctor. Oh, there's the door bell; I'm so glad somebody's come."
She ran to the door, threw it open, and then drew back a step in surprise. The visitor was Winifred Hamilton.
"Good-morning," said Winifred pleasantly. "Mother's gone out shopping with Aunt Estelle, and she said I might come and see you and Jack. I was coming before, but I've had a bad cold ever since Saturday, and mother was afraid of the draughts on the stairs. I haven't been to school all the week. Why, what's the matter—is Jack ill?"