Then, on the third day, the Story Girl came to us with a very white face.  She had been over to Uncle Roger’s yard to hear the latest bulletin from the sick room.  Hitherto they had been of a non-committal nature; but now it was only too evident that she had bad news.

“Peter is very, very sick,” she said miserably.  “He has caught cold someway—­and the measles have struck in—­and—­and—­” the Story Girl wrung her brown hands together—­“the doctor is afraid he—­he—­won’t get better.”

We all stood around, stricken, incredulous.

“Do you mean,” said Felix, finding voice at length, “that Peter is going to die?”

The Story Girl nodded miserably.

“They’re afraid so.”

Cecily sat down by her half filled basket and began to cry.  Felicity said violently that she didn’t believe it.

“I can’t pick another apple to-day and I ain’t going to try,” said Dan.

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.”