"Now, the trouble with the vet reporter is that by the time he gets to an age that is considered the prime of life in any other line, why, he can't half trot past anybody, and he gets scratched. And I think that will hold you for a while, Mead. Think it over."
O'Byrn yawned, glanced at the clock, and rose. "Well," said he, airily, "I'm off, don't you know, to see if I can find something to make me forget that society shindy. Oh, ya-a-s! Bubbles! you rude fellah; there now, Bubbles! Go 'way, Mead. You're not so bad, you know, but you don't belong. Tra, la! old chap, be good. What a pity you have to work for a living!" With which parting arrant nonsense O'Byrn considerately took himself off.
Arrived at the street, Micky's jovial grin faded and he walked along with a serious air that had been far more frequent with him of late. There was a sober-sided Micky that few of his mates knew. Often now, when the little Irishman was alone, the reckless light would fade in the blue eyes, leaving them unwontedly serious; the jovial grin would quit the freckled face, to be replaced by that pensive shadow that tells of wistful, wondering speculation regarding the veiled mystery of futurity. Such the spell of introspection that is cast when love comes to one, leading to grave heart-searchings, to the tentative facing of one's soul. There is as much of shadow as of sunlight in the path of true love, but there is substance in the shadow.
Micky was walking swiftly along, oblivious to his animated surroundings, when a touch upon an elbow arrested his attention. He glanced up, somewhat bewildered, and stopped. One of Maisie's brothers, Tom, was facing him.
"Hello, O'Byrn," abruptly remarked Muldoon. "Saw you passing me, lookin' dreamy-eyed, so I stopped you. Thought you might want to know. Maisie's sick."
"Sick!" echoed Micky, a scared look in his face. "Why, what—"
"Oh, don't worry like that." reassuringly. "We called in the doctor; he says there's no danger. She'll be all right."
"Yes," Micky returned anxiously, "but what's the matter, man? Why, she was all right Friday evening. I was there."
"Yes," returned her brother, "it came on real sudden. It's that fever that's going around; she came down last night. But she's got it mild, so don't you worry. It's too late now, she's asleep, but run in tomorrow for a minute sometime, can't you? It'll do her good. And don't worry, old man." With a hearty slap on Micky's shoulder Tom passed on.
Micky continued on his way, his heart heavy with the news. Of course, she was not in danger, but illness in itself is depressing to the young. They hate the sound of the word; the sight of suffering inspires in them an odd, rebellious impatience. The sun is needed to brighten the gray old world; why is it so often behind a cloud? "Poor little girl!" murmured Micky, the tears starting to his eyes. Why, only last Friday night she had been the picture of health and happiness, and they had sat side by side on the little sofa and talked of their modest plans. Yes, and he had run into the store the next day and chatted with her for a moment. And now she lay sick and helpless at home. A great wave of tenderness suffused O'Byrn's warm Irish heart. Would he call to see her for a moment on the morrow? Would he?