But I think it was when she was halfway through his dressing, and, kneeling on the floor beside him, was fastening his small suspenders, that Susan’s courage failed her. ‘Oh, Bonnie! Oh, my own Bonnie!’ she cried, pressing her head against his thin little ribs. ‘Susan,’ said the child earnestly, turning and clasping his arms round her bent head, ‘I’ll come back to you. I will indeed! I promise!’ It was a solemn promise; but it gave Susan nothing but such an awful pang of sure foreboding that it subdued her. Despair gives strength. She stopped her tears, and rose, and ministered to his little needs, and became as though grief was no longer hers—as though she lived and moved as her usual self. This immobility frightened her, because she knew she would pay the penalty for it later on, when he was gone. * * * * * Now, standing in the garden, awaiting Mr. Crosby and the carriage that is to carry the boy away from her for six long months, she is still dry-eyed and calm. Here it comes. She can hear the horses’ hoofs now, and the roll of the carriage-wheels along the road. And now it is stopping at the gate. And now—— Mr. Crosby has jumped out and is coming towards her. ‘You must say good-bye to me here, Susan,’ says he, ‘because there will only be good-bye for the little brother presently.’ ‘Good-bye,’ says she. ‘Obedient child.’ But as he holds her hand and looks at her, he can see the rings that grief has made around her beautiful eyes. Seeing him still waiting, as if for a larger answer, as she thinks, though in reality he is only silent because of his studying of her sad sweet face with its tears and its courage, so terrible in one so young, she says tremulously, ‘I have not even thanked you!’ ‘That is not it,’ says Crosby. ‘There is nothing to thank me for, but there is something, Susan, you might say. Tell me that you will miss me a little bit whilst I’m away.’ Susan’s hand trembles within his, but answer makes she none. ‘Well?’ says he again, as if determined not to be defrauded of his rights by this child—this pretty child. She may not love him, but surely she may miss him. Susan raises her eyes, and he can see that they are filled with tears. ‘Oh, I shall!’ says she earnestly. ‘I shall miss you, and long for your return.’ This fervid speech is so unlike Susan, that all at once he arranges a meaning for it. Of course, Bonnie will be with him; she will long for the child’s return. If he resents a little this thought of Susan’s for Bonnie, to the entire exclusion of himself, he still admires the affection that has inspired it and that desolates her lovely face. ‘Susan, I shall take care of him,’ says he earnestly. ‘Trust me in this matter. If human skill can do anything for him, I shall see that it is done; if care and watching and attention are of any use, he shall have them from me.’