Uncle James's kind face was a little clouded.
'Can he be vexed?' wondered thoughtless Roger. 'Or else—oh, yes—it's because she died that he doesn't like talking about her.' He said aloud, 'Never mind, Uncle, if it makes you feel bad.'
'She was very dear to me,' Uncle James said. 'Yet I scarcely ever speak of her; you will understand why, when I have finished what I am going to tell you. There were three of us,' he began, 'your mother, myself, and our little Phyllis. She was the youngest, and was nine at the time. We lived in a small house in this town, for our parents were not rich.'
Roger nodded. 'Mother showed me that house. It's smaller than this, a good deal.'
'Your mother, who was my mother's right hand, had been sent to a boarding-school at a distance, and I was left, in a way, in charge of my mother and young sister, my father being abroad with his regiment. You may be sure I felt proud of myself when I went round at night, bolting the doors and windows, and putting out the lights. And I generally ran home as quick as I could from the day-school I went to. Phyllis would be at the door, with her little pale face beaming, and brimming over with questions about my games and successes.
'Well, one Saturday afternoon, I was to play for the school in a football match; I was a good runner, and strong for my size, though I was quite a little chap. I remember being very much annoyed with my mother for saying I had better not play, as I had had a cold. I had caught it from Phyllis, we thought; but, as I was a robust lad, it was soon thrown off. But my sister—she was always delicate—still had a cough, and seemed dull and had headache. Of course I laughed at my mother's fears, took my football jersey from before the fire—she had washed it, and was just as particular about airing as your mother is—fussy, you would say—and off I went, in high spirits.
'"I won't be late," I called from the door.
'"No, be quick home, there's my dear boy," my mother said; and Phyllis, who was lying on the sofa, looked up for a minute with, "Play up, Jim. Mind you win the match."
'But mother followed me to the door.
'"Jim," she said, speaking low, "I don't feel easy about Phyllis. She is feverish to-day. I think you had better call and ask Dr. Harris to come."