The girl laughed tremulously; but the tears, summoned by the sight of the lad's emotion, were very near her own eyes. "Why, Micky!" she said softly. "What's the matter? Why, I'm not really sick, you know; that is, not bad. Only--" "Yes, little girl, I know," he interrupted, recovering himself. "I didn't mean to go up in the air like that, honest I didn't. But seein' you laid up like this, why, it just hit me where I live, that's all." His lip quivered. "There, there!" Maisie's mother, good old soul, was patting him on his meagre shoulder. "Of course it hit ye where ye live; in yer warm Irish heart, to be sure. But ye needn't worry, for the doctor says Maisie has a mild case and will be out soon. Well, I'll leave ye now, she's been lookin' for ye. Of course, ye can't stay long, for the doctor says she's got to be quiet. But have a little chat wid her, an' I'm glad ye came up, me boy." And she bustled out, radiating hearty, wholesome, everyday motherliness. For some moments after she had gone the boy and girl were silent. O'Byrn had drawn a chair close to the small white bed and sat quietly, her hand in his. It was hot, the little hand, and fevered roses bloomed in her soft cheeks. Her beautiful eyes, alight with joy at his coming, gazed happily into his own for a moment, then closed, a little wearily, as she lay content. Softly pressing the little answering hand, Micky looked dreamily about the room. It spoke eloquently of her, small and modest and instinct with peaceful purity. It was appointed simply in white, from the pretty curtains at the two small windows to dresser and bureau and quaint old-fashioned chairs. On a small stand a lamp burned dimly, for the outer dusk had turned into early autumn night. The tiny clock struck the half-hour. Her eyes opened. "I'm glad you're here, Micky," she said softly. "I've been hopin' you'd come. I hate to lie here all day long. 'Tisn't natural," with a rueful laugh. "But I don't want you to feel bad, Micky. You don't need to, I'm all right." "I know you are, girl," he answered heartily. "But it struck me all of a heap, somehow, seeing you stretched out like this. I knew you would be laid up, of course; but, don't you know, you can think about a thing all right, but it's different when you actually run up against it." She laughed gaily. "Does anyone else say things just like you?" she wondered. "That sounds just like your dear old slangy self, Micky. But anyway, you hit the nail on the head, every time." "And drive it through." He grinned joyfully at her. "Talk some more like that, Maisie," he urged her. "You sound like yourself. Oh, we'll have you on your pins in no time." "You bet!" She smiled back at him. "Oh, I hadn't ought to complain, I know. Others are having it worse than me. There's poor Julia Orr, worked in the store with me once. She died yesterday--" "Don't, Maisie!" His voice was unsteady. "Don't speak of dying--anybody! I can't stand it! I hate the thought of it!"