Bonnie has come over to Susan, and, casting his crutches aside, has slipped into her arms, his head upon her knee—a head that she strokes softly, softly, until at last the little lad falls fast asleep. ‘He had such a bad night,’ says Susan, as Crosby now comes up and seats himself beside her. ‘I expect that means that you had a bad night too.’ ‘Oh no’—reddening—‘I—I’m all right. But he—’ ‘It seems absurd,’ says Crosby suddenly, ‘that a child like that should be a prey to rheumatism? Are you sure the doctors have told you all the truth?’ ‘I think so.’ ‘But are they reliable authorities?’ ‘I’m afraid so,’ says Susan, sighing. ‘But’—gently—‘don’t let me trouble you with our sorrows; tell me of yourself. Your sister is coming, you say.’ ‘For my birthday. Yes, next month.’ ‘Your birthday?’ ‘I told you, didn’t I? It will be in a few days now.’ ‘A few days!’ Susan’s voice is low, as usual, but primed with a curiosity that she has much difficulty in suppressing. ‘The third of August. It always makes me feel like Ah Sin, Bret Harte’s Chinee—soft, you know. Katherine is coming for the great occasion. That’s my sister’s name, Katherine. You will like her, I think.’ ‘Is she like you?’ asks Susan. CHAPTER XXX. ‘Ask not her name: The light winds whisper it on every hand.’ ‘Not a bit,’ says he, shaking his head. ‘Just the reverse. She is young and skittish, whilst I am old and dull.’ ‘Not dull,’ says Susan. ‘Lazy, then. That comes of age, too, you know.’ ‘You weren’t too lazy to hunt the hens just now,’ says Susan, as if combating some disagreeable remembrances; ‘and you weren’t too lazy to mount a ladder a month or so ago.’ ‘Ah, Susan, that’s unkind! You shouldn’t hold up my past misdeeds to me. If you do, I’ll hold up your indiscretions to you—your lengthened conversation with a thief, for example. You know you did think me a thief then.’ Susan makes a gesture. ‘Oh yes, you did; there is no getting out of that. You even made me promise never to steal again. And I haven’t, not so much as the proverbial pin. That’s good of me, isn’t it? Shows signs of grace, eh? Really, Susan, I think you might say something. Give me one word of encouragement. But perhaps you don’t believe in my reformation. I know ever since that day when I was stealing the cherries you have had the lowest opinion of me.’ ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,’ says Susan, her charming brows drawing together; ‘it is very stupid of you, and you know you don’t mean a word of it. Stealing! How could you steal your own cherries? What nonsense it all is! If you have nothing better to say than that, you’—with a sudden and most unusual discourtesy—‘had better go away.’ ‘Never; wild horses wouldn’t draw me from this,’ says Crosby. ‘I’ll say something “better” at once. I’m sure you have the highest opinion of me. Will that do, and may I stay now?’