“I’ll go in.”
The other woman carried her burden across the threshold—in the quiet orderly sick room her eyes and her brother’s eyes met for the first time in years.
He was very white and thin, unshorn, and somehow he reminded her of the unkempt little motherless boy of years ago.
“Molly!” he whispered, his lips trembling.
And her own mouth shook as she put the bowl on the bedside table, and sat down beside him, and clasped her fine, strong, warm hand over his thin one.
“Hello, Timmy,” she said gently, blinking, and with a little thickness of speech.
“Molly,” he whispered again in infinite content. And she felt his fingers tighten, and saw two tears slip through the closed eyelids as his head was laid back against the pillow.
“Weak—” he murmured, without stirring.
“You’ve been so sick, dear.”
A silence. Then he said, “Molly, were you here in the night?”