None of us could. We went to the grown-ups and told them so; and the grown-ups, with unaccustomed understanding and sympathy, told us that we need not. Then we roamed about in our wretchedness and tried to comfort one another. We avoided the orchard; it was for us too full of happy memories to accord with our bitterness of soul. Instead, we resorted to the spruce wood, where the hush and the sombre shadows and the soft, melancholy sighing of the wind in the branches over us did not jar harshly on our new sorrow. We could not really believe that Peter was going to die--to DIE. Old people died. Grown-up people died. Even children of whom we had heard died. But that one of US--of our merry little band--should die was unbelievable. We could not believe it. And yet the possibility struck us in the face like a blow. We sat on the mossy stones under the dark old evergreens and gave ourselves up to wretchedness. We all, even Dan, cried, except the Story Girl. “I don’t see how you can be so unfeeling, Sara Stanley,” said Felicity reproachfully. “You’ve always been such friends with Peter--and made out you thought so much of him--and now you ain’t shedding a tear for him.” I looked at the Story Girl’s dry, piteous eyes, and suddenly remembered that I had never seen her cry. When she told us sad tales, in a voice laden with all the tears that had ever been shed, she had never shed one of her own. “I can’t cry,” she said drearily. “I wish I could. I’ve a dreadful feeling here--” she touched her slender throat--“and if I could cry I think it would make it better. But I can’t.” “Maybe Peter will get better after all,” said Dan, swallowing a sob. “I’ve heard of lots of people who went and got better after the doctor said they were going to die.” “While there’s life there’s hope, you know,” said Felix. “We shouldn’t cross bridges till we come to them.” “Those are only proverbs,” said the Story Girl bitterly. “Proverbs are all very fine when there’s nothing to worry you, but when you’re in real trouble they’re not a bit of help.” “Oh, I wish I’d never said Peter wasn’t fit to associate with,” moaned Felicity. “If he ever gets better I’ll never say such a thing again--I’ll never THINK it. He’s just a lovely boy and twice as smart as lots that aren’t hired out.” “He was always so polite and good-natured and obliging,” sighed Cecily. “He was just a real gentleman,” said the Story Girl. “There ain’t many fellows as fair and square as Peter,” said Dan. “And such a worker,” said Felix. “Uncle Roger says he never had a boy he could depend on like Peter,” I said. “It’s too late to be saying all these nice things about him now,” said the Story Girl. “He won’t ever know how much we thought of him. It’s too late.” “If he gets better I’ll tell him,” said Cecily resolutely.