Page:The little blue devil (IA littlebluedevil00mackiala).pdf/75

few words passed between them. He was, of course, too weak to talk, but often pretended a greater weakness and drowsiness than he really felt, dreading the idea of any conversation with this strange woman, so unlike anyone he had spoken to for so many years. Her very presence vaguely irritated him; he refused even to respond to the smile with which she greeted and left him; his one idea was to get well enough to leave this household which had taken possession of him—to get free of all the care to which he was forced to submit, yet resented from the bottom of his stubborn heart. In a way he felt as if he were trapped. If he had been tossed about before, at least circumstances had never closed on him unaware, forcing him to live a new life.

His resentment was plain enough to Alison, who longed for an occasional softening of the tightly closed lips or a pressure of the hand she patted once or twice in passing. She longed in vain, but attributed all his lack of response to illness, never dreaming, she who made friends with whom she would, that convalescence would not bring him to her feet.

“How are you getting on with that boy of yours?” the Professor asked her every evening.

“Oh, we haven’t begun to ‘get on’ exactly yet, Winthrop—we shall soon enough, but you know I’m not allowed to talk to him at present, and most of the time I’m there he’s asleep, or in such pain, poor, brave little boy!”

“Are you aware, madam, that this ‘little boy’ you speak of as if he were barely out of long clothes is every bit of fifteen years old—if not more?”

“Very possibly, dear, but I wish you wouldn’t remind me of it. He looks the merest baby most of the time, and I’m simply dying for him to be well enough for me to cuddle and mother—I’m sure he’s had little enough of it, poor mystery! Besides, Winthrop, aren’t you frightfully