delightfully, showing a genuine interest and pleasure in the child. But of late this had fallen off somewhat, and Teresa had more than one compunctious memory of Ronald's small, lonely figure and wistful glance as he besought her to come and sail his boats or "play horse," but was left behind while she went off with Crayven. His fondness for "the Man" had visibly cooled, and Teresa wondered what vague perception might be stirring in his mind. Ronald knew more than he could or would say, she was sure of that; this characteristic of childhood he had in unusual measure, being naturally reflective and reserved. Teresa now, as she poured out her tenderness for him, loving every lock of his dishevelled bronze hair, every movement of his dimpled brown hands, resolved to be much more with him in future. She blamed herself for leaving him so much to the nurse, whom she knew he did not especially like.
At his reiterated demand she sent a note to Crayven, who came over at once.
"I thought you might have been walking to-day—it's such wonderful weather," she said as she took him to Ronald's room.
"No—I thought perhaps you'd go out after tea for a stroll."
"I can't, I'm afraid. Ronald can't bear the sight of his nurse, now he's ill. I must stay with him."
