“Yes,” said Courage, knowing well enough that he understood her, “nearly three weeks ago. He had typhoid fever, and he tried very hard to get well, and we all tried so hard, Larry—the Doctor and Mary Duff and me—but the fever was the kind that wouldn't break. And then one day papa just said, 'It isn't any use, darling. I'm going to give up the fight and go to your blessed mother, but you need have never a fear, Courage, while Larry Starr is in the world.'”
“Did he say that really?” asked Larry, tears of which he was not ashamed rolling down his bronzed face.
“Yes,” said Courage solemnly; “but oh, Larry, I have been waiting here for so many days that I began to think perhaps you would never come, and if you hadn't come, Larry—” and then the recollection of all these hours of watching proved quite too much for her overwrought little frame, and burying her face in her hands on Larry's knee, she cried very bitterly.
“It is best,” thought Larry, “to let her have her cry out.” Besides he was not sure enough of his own voice to try to comfort her, so he just stroked the auburn hair gently with his strong hand, and said not a word. Meanwhile another old friend had come upon the scene, and stood staring at Larry and Courage with a world of questioning in his eyes. He seemed to have his doubts at first as to the advisability of coming nearer. He discovered, it was evident, that there was trouble in the air. That he was greatly interested, and fully expected to be confided in sooner or later, was also evident from the beseeching way in which he would put his head on one side and then on the other, looking up to Larry, as much as to say, “When are you going to tell me what it is all about?” But never a word from Larry and never a glance from Courage, till at last such ignominious treatment was no longer to be borne, and walking slowly up, he also laid his head upon Larry's knee. Courage felt something cold against her cheek and started up to find a pair of wonderfully expressive eyes raised beseechingly to hers. “Oh, Bruce, old fellow,” she cried, “I forgot all about you,” and then, flinging her arms about his neck, she literally dried her tears on his beautiful silky coat. But Bruce would not long be content with mere passive acceptance of affection, and in another second rather rudely shook himself free from her grasp, and began springing upon her, so that she had to jump to her feet and cry, “Down, Bruce,” three or four times before he would mind her; but Bruce was satisfied. Things could not have come to such a terrible pass if it took no more than that to make Courage seem her old self again, and finally, concluding that she really said “Down, Bruce,” quite as though she meant it, he decided to give his long legs a good run, and call on an old collie friend of his who picked up a living on Pier 17. Never, however, had visit of sympathetic friend proved as timely as this call of Bruce's. With what infinite tact had he first sympathized with and then tried to cheer his little friend! And he had succeeded, for both Larry and Courage now found themselves able to talk calmly of all that had happened, and of what had best be done.
“So you would like to come on the lighter with me for the summer,” said Larry somewhat doubtfully, after they had been conferring for some time together, and yet with his old face brightening at the thought.
Courage simply nodded her head in the affirmative, but her eyes said, “Oh, wouldn't I, Larry,” as plainly as words.
“And Mary Duff thinks it would be all right, too?”
“The very best thing for the summer, Larry.”
“Well then, bless your heart, you shall come; but how about next winter? Why, then I suppose I shall have to send you away to a school somewhere.”
Courage shrugged her shoulders rather ruefully.