Nancy and Sarah, left alone, stood and stared at each other in dismay. They did not give speech to it, but at that moment both realized that childhood was a land left far behind them. Nancy’s lover had died two years before. Queerly enough, she thought of him now. Sometime he had been a little boy like poor Tommy.
“I s’pose we ought to have known better,” Sarah thought. All she said was, “I guess Grace Roseberry will think we’re heathen.”
“Perhaps he—won’t—tell,” said Nancy hesitatingly.
“Children always tell,” returned Sarah. “Let him tell. It is all Grace’s fault, spoiling Cora and having her put such ideas into Tommy’s head. Come, it’s time to get breakfast. You go in and see how Mother is; if she had a good night.”
“Mother wouldn’t like it,” murmured Nancy.
“She’ll give him some pep’mints and coddle him up when he tells her,” said Sarah.
“Perhaps he won’t tell,” returned Nancy.
“Of course he’ll tell; children always tell. Let him. I’ve done nothing that I’m ashamed of. It was only a joke. It will cure him of being so silly, too. I’ll start the breakfast while you look after Mother.”
Then Tommy was heard on the stairs. He entered the room, clad in his uncouth suit, and went soberly through on his way to the wood-shed. It was his morning task to chop up the kindling wood. Tommy’s face was still white and unchildlike, and the sisters regarded each other with something like fear when he had disappeared.
“All I’ve got to say is, a child as silly as that ought to be taught sense, and I guess it’s just as well it happened,” said Sarah.