There was a moment's intimate pause. There seemed not a sound on the whole street save the subdued chug-chug of Deane's waiting machine. The only light in the big house back in the shadowy yard was the dim light that burned because a man was dying. Deane's hand went out to his steering wheel. "Well, so long, Ted," he said in a voice curiously gentle. "'By, Deane," said the boy. He drove on through the silent town in another mood. This boy's feeling had touched something in his heart that was softening. He had always been attracted to Ted Holland--his frank hazel eyes, something that seemed so square and so pleasant in the clear, straight features of his freckled face. He had been only a youngster of about thirteen when Ruth went away. She had adored him; "my good-looking baby brother," was her affectionate way of speaking of him. He was thinking what it would mean to Ruth to come home and find this warmth in Ted. Why, it might make all the difference in the world, he was gratefully considering. When he came into the room where Amy was sleeping she awoke and sat up in bed, rubbing sleepy eyes blinded by the light. "Poor dear," she murmured at sight of his face, "so tired?" He sat down on the bed; now that he was home, too tired to move. "Pretty tired. Woman died." "Oh, Deane!" she cried. "Deane, I'm _so_ sorry." She reached over and put her arms around him. "You couldn't help it, dear," she comforted. "You couldn't help it." Her sympathy was very sweet to him; as said by her, the fact that he couldn't help it did make some difference. "And you had to be there such a long time. Why it must be most morning." "Hardly that. I've been at the Hollands' too--talking to Ted. Poor kid--it's lonesome for him." "Who is he?" asked Amy. "Why--" and then he remembered. "Why, Ruth Holland's brother," he said, trying not to speak consciously. "The father's very sick, you know." "Oh," said Amy. She moved over to the other side of her bed. "They're going to send for Ruth." Amy made no reply. He was too utterly tired to think much about it--too worn for acute sensibilities. He sat there yawning. "I really ought to write to Ruth myself tonight," he said, sleepily thinking out loud, "but I'm too all in." He wanted her to take the letter off his conscience for him. "I think I'd better come to bed, don't you, honey?" "I should think you would need rest," was her answer. She had turned the other way and seemed to be going to sleep again. Somehow he felt newly tired but was too exhausted to think it out. He told himself that Amy had just roused for the minute and was too sleepy to keep awake. People were that way when waked out of a sound sleep. CHAPTER FOUR