"Sit down, Ughtred," she said, and when he did so she herself sat down,
but not too near him.
Resting his chin on the handle of a crutch, he gazed at her almost
protestingly.
"I always have to do these things," he said, "and I am not clever
enough, or old enough. I am only eleven."
The mention of the number of his years was plainly not apologetic, but
was a mere statement of his limitations. There the fact was, and he must
make the best of it he could.
"What things do you mean?"
"Trying to make things easier--explaining things when she cannot think
of excuses. To-day it is telling you what she is too frightened to tell
you herself. I said to her that you must be told. It made her nervous
and miserable, but I knew you must."
"Yes, I must," Betty answered. "I am glad she has you to depend on,
Ughtred."
His crutch grated on the floor and his boy eyes forbade her to believe
that their sudden lustre was in any way connected with restrained
emotion.
"I know I seem queer and like a little old man," he said. "Mother cries
about it sometimes. But it can't be helped. It is because she has never
had anyone but me to help her. When I was very little, I found out how
frightened and miserable she was.
Pages:
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224