And then somehow I knew that if he is not to grow up strong and straight like other boys, if he is to suffer more and more as the years go by, it would be cruel to want to keep Robin. And, oh, I went on singing, and my voice did not once break or trail! So perhaps God will forgive the wicked words I wrote when I was so wild,—for I believe I can be brave now because after a bit Bobsie dropped asleep with his hand still in mine, and—I think, before I left him, that I said “good-bye.” Sunday, March 22. It is over. All yesterday morning Ernie and I sat on the attic stairs, holding each other’s hands and trying to feel hopeful. “He had such a pretty colour in his cheeks last evening,” said Ernie, “and he did _so_ enjoy looking out the window. Buster was there, and John waved his hand before they went away. It was a good sign that the doctor should have let him up in his chair for half an hour,—don’t you think so, Elizabeth? Robin has a lot of vitality.” “Yes; I know he has,” I agreed. “And if the operation does go well,—how splendid it will be!” “Somehow one never thinks of Bobsie running about like other boys,” continued Ernie,—“going to school, and playing marbles, and doing errands. I,—I can’t hardly realise it.” “Neither can I,” I answered, and for a while there was silence between us. Then Ernie began again:—“How good everybody has been! Uncle George even offered to pay for the operation. I’m glad we didn’t have to accept, though;—and we ought to be very thankful, too, Elizabeth, about the boarders. The oatmeal was burned this morning,—did you notice?—and they never said ‘boo’! Just think, if Mrs. Hudson had been here!” “I know it,” I answered. “Oh, Ernie, if Robin and Geof pull through, there is not another thing in the world we could dare to ask for!” “I’ve prayed, and prayed,” returned Ernie, simply. “And I saw Miss Barron yesterday, and she says that Geof is holding his own.” Then for a long time we were quiet, each thinking her own thoughts. It seemed as the morning would never go. “Robin isn’t feeling anything at all,” said Ernie, at last. “Dr. Porter promised that. It was to take about an hour, Elizabeth, only, of course, there would be a great deal to get ready first. I must see what time it is. It seems as if we had been sitting here weeks!” And Ernie opened the hall door and stole out into the light, blinking like a little owl. A moment more and she was back,—very white and scared. “It smells so of chloroform,” she confessed. “I,—I didn’t quite reach the clock.” So then we shut the door again, and waited a long, long while; till, at last, we heard mother call:— “Elizabeth! Ernestine!” I sat quite still, but Ernie ran down and threw back the door:—“We are here, mother dear, on the attic stairs.”