“Yes, the Catism—all about God and what He does and what He doesn’t do too, Mother. ’Specially the things He doesn’t do. I don’t like those things. Who does arrange the bad things, Mother?”
“Here, youngster, you’ll have us all frogging in deep water in another jiffy and shouting for help,” said the father. “That’ll do. Take your mother up the hill for a walk. It is getting cool enough for a walk, eh, what?”
“I believe I am a little too tired,” said the mother, wistfully looking up the hill.
“Oh, go on, Mother. Take it easy. A little walk will do you good.”
“Come on, Mother. I’ll take care of you,” said the boy stoutly.
“Come along then, laddie.”
The man stood looking after them as they toiled uphill among the pines, the mother pausing now and again, ostensibly to pick a red lily or to admire some newly opening vista through the aisled forest.
“My God!” he said, through his teeth. “She is getting weaker. She is! She is! We must get her out of this to some one who knows. Must raise the money somehow.”
He swore a deep oath, and, passing into the bungalow, sat down to drink his heartache numb in Scotch whiskey.