"Yes;an'that's what beats me,"he answered slowly;"'bout HIM,--Mr.Holly,I mean.'Course we'd 'a'expected it of HER--losin'her own boy as she did,an'bein'jest naturally so sweet an'lovin'-hearted.But HIM--that's diff'rent.Now,you know jest as well as I do what Mr.Holly is--every one does,so Iain't sayin'nothin'sland'rous.He's a good man--a powerful good man;an'there ain't a squarer man goin'ter work fur.But the fact is,he was made up wrong side out,an'the seams has always showed bad--turrible bad,with ravelin's all stickin'out every which way ter ketch an'pull.But,gosh!I'm blamed if that,ere boy ain't got him so smoothed down,you wouldn't know,scursely,that he had a seam on him,sometimes;though how he's done it beats me.Now,there's Mis'Holly--she's tried ter smooth 'em,I'll warrant,lots of times.But I'm free ter say she hain't never so much as clipped a ravelin'in all them forty years they've lived tergether.Fact is,it's worked the other way with her.All that HER rubbin'up ag'in'them seams has amounted to is ter git herself so smoothed down that she don't never dare ter say her soul's her own,most generally,--anyhow,not if he happens ter intermate it belongs ter anybody else!"Jack Gurnsey suddenly choked over a cough.
"I wish I could--do something,"he murmured uncertainly.
"'T ain't likely ye can--not so long as Mr.an'Mis'Holly is on their two feet.Why,there ain't nothin'they won't do,an'you'll believe it,maybe,when I tell you that yesterday Mr.
Holly,he tramped all through Sawyer's woods in the rain,jest ter find a little bit of moss that the boy was callin'for.Think o'that,will ye?Simeon Holly huntin'moss!An'he got it,too,an'brung it home,an'they say it cut him up somethin'turrible when the boy jest turned away,and didn't take no notice.You understand,'course,sir,the little chap ain't right in his head,an'so half the time he don't know what he says.""Oh,I'm sorry,sorry!"exclaimed Gurnsey,as he turned away,and hurried toward the farmhouse.
Mrs.Holly herself answered his low knock.She looked worn and pale.
"Thank you,sir,"she said gratefully,in reply to his offer of assistance,"but there isn't anything you can do,Mr.Gurnsey.
We're having everything done that can be,and every one is very kind.We have a very good nurse,and Dr.Kennedy has had consultation with Dr.Benson from the Junction.They are doing all in their power,of course,but they say that--that it's going to be the nursing that will count now.""Then I don't fear for him,surely"declared the man,with fervor.
"I know,but--well,he shall have the very best possible--of that.""I know he will;but isn't there anything--anything that I can do?"She shook her head.
"No.Of course,if he gets better--"She hesitated;then lifted her chin a little higher;"WHEN he gets better,"she corrected with courageous emphasis,"he will want to see you.""And he shall see me,"asserted Gurnsey."And he will be better,Mrs.Holly,--I'm sure he will.""Yes,yes,of course,only--oh,Mr.Jack,he's so sick--so very sick!The doctor says he's a peculiarly sensitive nature,and that he thinks something's been troubling him lately."Her voice broke.
"Poor little chap!"Mr.Jack's voice,too,was husky.
She looked up with swift gratefulness for his sympathy.
"And you loved him,too,I know"she choked."He talks of you often--very often.""Indeed I love him!Who could help it?"
"There couldn't anybody,Mr.Jack,--and that's just it.Now,since he's been sick,we've wondered more than ever who he is.
You see,I can't help thinking that somewhere he's got friends who ought to know about him--now.""Yes,I see,"nodded the man.
"He isn't an ordinary boy,Mr.Jack.He's been trained in lots of ways--about his manners,and at the table,and all that.And lots of things his father has told him are beautiful,just beautiful!He isn't a tramp.He never was one.And there's his playing.YOU know how he can play.""Indeed I do!You must miss his playing,too.""I do;he talks of that,also,"she hurried on,working her fingers nervously together;"but oftenest he--he speaks of singing,and I can't quite understand that,for he didn't ever sing,you know.""Singing?What does he say?"The man asked the question because he saw that it was affording the overwrought little woman real relief to free her mind;but at the first words of her reply he became suddenly alert.
"It's 'his song,'as he calls it,that he talks about,always.It isn't much--what he says--but I noticed it because he always says the same thing,like this:I'll just hold up my chin and march straight on and on,and I'll sing it with all my might and main.'And when I ask him what he's going to sing,he always says,'My song--my song,'just like that.Do you think,Mr.Jack,he did have--a song?"For a moment the man did not answer.Something in his throat tightened,and held the words.Then,in a low voice he managed to stammer:--"I think he did,Mrs.Holly,and--I think he sang it,too."The next moment,with a quick lifting of his hat and a murmured "I'll call again soon,"he turned and walked swiftly down the driveway.
So very swiftly,indeed,was Mr.Jack walking,and so self-absorbed was he,that he did not see the carriage until it was almost upon him;then he stepped aside to let it pass.What he saw as he gravely raised his hat was a handsome span of black horses,a liveried coachman,and a pair of startled eyes looking straight into his.What he did not see was the quick gesture with which Miss Holbrook almost ordered her carriage stopped the minute it had passed him by.
