“Did uncle call?” asked Helen, with a start out of her reverie.
“I didn't hear him,” replied Bo.
Helen rose to tiptoe across the floor, and, softly parting some curtains, she looked into the room where her uncle lay. He was asleep. Sometimes he called out in his slumbers. For weeks now he had been confined to his bed, slowly growing weaker. With a sigh Helen returned to her window-seat and took up her work.
“Bo, the sun is bright,” she said. “The days are growing longer. I'm so glad.”
“Nell, you're always wishing time away. For me it passes quickly enough,” replied the sister.
“But I love spring and summer and fall—and I guess I hate winter,” returned Helen, thoughtfully.
The yellow ranges rolled away up to the black ridges and they in turn swept up to the cold, white mountains. Helen's gaze seemed to go beyond that snowy barrier. And Bo's keen eyes studied her sister's earnest, sad face.
“Nell, do you ever think of Dale?” she queried, suddenly.
The question startled Helen. A slow blush suffused neck and cheek.
“Of course,” she replied, as if surprised that Bo should ask such a thing.