Hardly had the door closed behind the autocrat of the sick-room, when his patient turned softly.
"You're crying," he accused.
"I'm not!" The denial was the merest gasp. The long lashes quivered with tears.
"Yes, you are. He was mean to you."
"He's never mean to me." The words came in a sobbing rush. "But he—he—stopped loving me just for that minute. And when anybody I love stops loving me I want to die!"
The boy's brown hands crept timidly to her arm. "I like you awfully," he said. "And I'll never stop, not even for a minute!"
"Won't you?" Again she was the child coquette. "But we're going away to-night. Perhaps you won't see me any more."
"Oh, yes, I shall. I'll look for you until I find you."
"I'll hide," she teased.
"That won't matter, little girl." He repeated the form softly and drowsily. "Little girl; little girl; I'd do anything in the world for you, little girl, if ever you asked me. Only don't go away while I'm asleep."