Sarah came running out from Tommy’s bedside. “He’s better,” said she joyfully. “He has eaten every mite.”
“Tom Loring has come,” announced Nancy.
“I suppose now there will be a to-do. I suppose that child will tell the whole thing, and we can’t ever make Tom Loring understand,” said Sarah.
“Tommy won’t tell,” said Reuben grimly. He had not eaten much dinner himself, and he looked downcast. He was really fond of Tommy.
Sarah ushered Uncle Tom Loring into the sitting-room. He was a youngish man, stout and rosy. “Where’s Tommy?” he demanded.
“Tommy had a little sick spell just before dinner,” said Sarah entering, wiping her hands on her apron. “How do you do, Tom?”
“Sick spell!” repeated Uncle Tom Loring.
Reuben followed after Sarah. He greeted Tom, who turned to him hopefully. “What do they mean by a sick spell?”
“Fainted dead away,” replied Reuben shortly.
Uncle Tom made an exclamation of dismay. “Why, I came out thinking I would take him back to Boston with me,” he said. “Sister Annie has come to live with me now her husband’s dead and her children are all married; and I thought little Tommy could come and make us a visit, maybe live with us most of the time, if he likes it. And now he’s sick! Annie will be dreadfully disappointed. She’s got a tree all rigged up for him, and a big dinner, and everything.”