“Were it me I would.”
When I had got to the doctor’s door again, I hesitated, as before, fearing to go in; and once more I withdrew to my sister’s room.
“I’m not able t’ go in,” I faltered. “’Tis awful, Bessie, t’ hear men goin’ on—like that.”
“Like what?”
“Cryin’.”
A little while longer I sat silent with my sister—until, indeed, the restless footfalls ceased, and the blessed quiet of night fell once again.
“An’, Bessie,” said I, “he said a queer thing.”
She glanced a question.
She was much interested—but hopelessly puzzled. For a moment she gazed intently at the stars. Then she sighed.