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She said nothing. He fidgeted. He was at the end of his consolations.

“Well—good-night now.” He turned to go.

Her hand shot out and caught his arm.

“Is it quite true?”

“What?”

“About Mother?”

“’Fraid so.” He moved uneasily, afraid, boylike, of her tears. But she did not cry.

“Are you sure? Are you sure?”

He nodded.

She turned from him with a sharp movement, so that he could see no more than the outline of her cheek.

He stood beside her patiently for a time, but she did not move, and he wondered at last if drowsiness were doing for her all that he could not. With slow precaution he began to edge away his arm. Instantly her grasp tightened.

“Oh, I say—you must go to sleep, you know,” he admonished her.

She turned again, lifting herself on her pillow. Her eyes devoured his face.

“Will you really teach me tomorrow?”

“Of course I will. I’ll give you lessons. We’ll soon have you riding all over the place.”

“But you’re going away.”

“I come home every week.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Honest?”

“Honest. Good-night, old thing.” He hesitated. Then, his pity for her conquering his schoolboy code, he bent down and pecked awkwardly at her cheek.