"And you had to be there such a long time. Why it must be most morning."
"Hardly that. I've been at the Hollands' too—talking to Ted. Poor kid—it's lonesome for him."
"Who is he?" asked Amy.
"Why—" and then he remembered. "Why, Ruth Holland's brother," he said, trying not to speak consciously. "The father's very sick, you know."
"Oh," said Amy. She moved over to the other side of her bed.
"They're going to send for Ruth."
Amy made no reply.
He was too utterly tired to think much about it—too worn for acute sensibilities. He sat there yawning. "I really ought to write to Ruth myself tonight," he said, sleepily thinking out loud, "but I'm too all in." He wanted her to take the letter off his conscience for him. "I think I'd better come to bed, don't you, honey?"
"I should think you would need rest," was her answer.
She had turned the other way and seemed to be going to sleep again. Somehow he felt newly tired but was too exhausted to think it out. He told himself that Amy had just roused for the minute and was too sleepy to keep awake. People were that way when waked out of a sound sleep.