‘Oh, they’ve been saying he can’t live out the winter,’ said Ellen, shedding the tears that had been kept back all this time, and broke out now with double force, in her grief for one brother and vexation with the other.

But next winter seemed a great way off to Harold, and he was put out besides, so he did not seem shocked, especially as he was reproached with not feeling what he did not know; so all he did was to say angrily, ‘And how was I to know that?’

’Of course you don’t know anything, going scampering over the country with the worst lot you can find, away from church and all, not caring for anything!  Poor Mother! she never thought one of her lads would come to that!’

‘Plenty does so, without never such a fuss,’ said Harold.  ’Why, what harm is there in eating a few cherries?’

There would be very little pleasure or use in knowing what a wrangling went on all the time Mrs. King was up-stairs putting Alfred to bed.  Ellen had all the right on her side, but she did not use it wisely; she was very unhappy, and much displeased with Harold, and so she had it all out in a fretful manner that made him more cross and less feeling than was his nature.

There was something he did feel, however—­and that was his mother’s pale, worn, sorrowful face, when she came down-stairs and hushed Ellen, but did not speak to him.  They took down the books, read their chapter, and she read prayers very low, and not quite steadily.  He would have liked very much to have told her he felt sorry, but he was too proud to do so after having shewn Ellen he was above caring for such nonsense.

So they all went to bed, Harold on a little landing at the top of the stairs; but—­whether it was from the pounds of merry-stones he had swallowed, or the talk he had had with his sister—­he could not go to sleep, and lay tossing and tumbling about, thinking it very odd he had not heeded more what Ellen had said when he first came in, and the notion dawning on him more and more, that day after day would come and make Alfred worse, and that by the time summer came again he should be alone.  Who could have said it?  Why had not he asked?  What could he have been thinking about?  It should not be true!  A sort of frenzy to speak to some one, and hear the real meaning of those words, so as to make sure they were only Ellen’s nonsense, came over him in the silent darkness.  Presently he heard Alfred moving on his pillow, for the door was open for the heat; and that long long sigh made him call in a whisper, ‘Alf, are you awake?’

In another moment Harold was by his brother’s side.  ’Alf!  Alf! are you worse?’ he asked, whispering.

‘No.’

’Then what’s all this?  What did they say?  It’s all stuff; I’m sure it is, and you’re getting better.  But what did Ellen mean?’

‘No, Harold,’ said Alfred, getting his brother’s hand in his, ’it’s not stuff; I shan’t get well; I’m going after poor Charlie; and don’t you be a bad lad, Harold, and run away from your church, for you don’t know—­how bad it feels to—­’ and Alfred turned his face down, for the tears were coming thick.