"But I've had two boys myself, and it seems to me that a boy like that, who didn't eat and didn't get into mischief, and did his work, would be the handiest kind of boy to have about the place."
The Passing of Edward
I found Dorothy sitting sedately on the beach, with a mass of black seaweed twined in her hands and her bare feet sparkling white in the sun. Even in the first glow of recognition I realised that she was paler than she had been the summer before, and yet I cannot blame myself for the tactlessness of my question.
"Where's Edward?" I said; and I looked about the sands for a sailor suit and a little pair of prancing legs.
While I looked Dorothy's eyes watched mine inquiringly, as if she wondered what I might see.
"Edward's dead," she said simply. "He died last year, after you left."
For a moment I could only gaze at the child in silence, and ask myself what reason there was in the thing that had hurt her so. Now that I knew that Edward played with her no more, I could see that there was a shadow upon her face too dark for her years, and that she had lost, to some extent, that exquisite carelessness of poise which makes children so young. Her voice was so calm that I might have thought her forgetful had I not seen an instant of patent pain in her wide eyes.
"I'm sorry," I said at length "very, very, sorry indeed. I had brought down my car to take you for a drive, as I promised."
"Oh! Edward would have liked that," she answered thoughtfully; "he was so fond of motors." She swung round suddenly and looked at the sands behind her with staring eyes.
"I thought I heard—" she broke off in confusion.