David knew not how to answer. But his heart was more nimble than his lips. "I was awful sorry when you lost your little boy," he said, his eyes upon the ground; "I never had a son myself—so you're better off nor me."
XI
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
One pair of eyes, at least, had watched Harvey's unostentatious retreat from the clamorous throng about the table. And no sooner had Madeline noted his departure than she quietly slipped into the vacant place beside his sister, who welcomed her with a smile as generous as the absorbing intensity of the moment would permit. Madeline's cheeks were still rosy with the flush of angry resentment that Cecil's cruel words had started. Twice had he taken his place beside her at the table, and twice she had moved away; even now his eyes seemed to follow her, casting conciliatory glances that found no response.
The picnic feast was finally concluded—but not till sheer physical inability proclaimed a truce—and Madeline and Jessie withdrew together.
"Let's go down into the gully, Jessie," Madeline suggested, pointing towards a slight ravine a little way in the distance; "I think we'd find flowers there, perhaps."
Jessie was agreed. "But I wish Harvey would come," she said; "I wonder where he is—he went away just when we began our dinner."
"Oh, he's all right," replied the older girl. "I saw him going away—he'll be back in a little."
"An' I didn't see—I didn't see the rhubarb tarts mother made," Jessie continued, her mind still busy with the missing. "You don't suppose Cecil Craig threw them away, do you?" she asked, suddenly fearful; "he's so mean."
"Don't let's speak about him at all," Madeline interrupted. "The tarts are all right," she went on consolingly. "I saw one boy very—very busy with them," she concluded dexterously. "Besides," she added, the connection not so obvious as her tone would indicate, "I've got something to say to you, Jessie—sit down; sit down beside me here."