very brave deed.
Father had it; when he comes back he'll show you his Victoria Cross;
then you'll know."

"Do yer think as he'll come soon?" asked Connie.

"He may come to-day," said Ronald--"or he may not," he added, with a
profound sigh.

The little boy had been talking with great excitement, but now the color
faded from his cheeks and he coughed a little. He had coughed more or
less since that dreadful day when Mrs. Warren had taken him out in the
snowstorm. He was always rather a delicate child, and after his bad
fever he was not fit to encounter such misery and hardship.

"Connie," he said after a time, "it's the worst of all dreadful things,
isn't it, to pretend that you are what you aren't?"

"What do yer mean by that?" asked Connie.

"Well, it's this way. You praise me for being brave. I am not brave
always; I am very frightened sometimes. I am very terribly frightened
now, dear Connie."

"Oh Ronald!" said Connie, "if you're frightened hall's hup."

"Let me tell you," said Ronald. He laid his little, thin hand on the
girl's arm. "It's about father. Do you think, Connie, that Mammy Warren
could have invented that story about him?"

"I dunno," said Connie.

"But what do you think, Connie? Tell me just what you think."

"Tell me what you think, Ronald."

"I am afraid to think," said the child. "At first I believed it, just as
though father had spoken himself to me. I thought for sure and certain
he'd be waiting for me here. I didn't think for a single moment that
he'd be the sort of father that would come and stand outside in the
landing and go away again just because I wasn't here. For, you see, I am
his own little boy; I am all he has got. I know father so well, I don't
believe he could do that kind of thing."

"Oh, but you can't say," answered Connie. "Certain sure, it seemed as
though Agnes spoke the truth."

"I thought that too; only father's a very refined sort of man, and he'd
never, never chuck Mrs. Warren under the chin."

"Agnes might have invented that part," said poor Connie. But in her
heart of hearts she had long ago given up all hope of Ronald's father
coming to fetch him.

"She might," said Ronald; "that is quite true; and he might have had to
go to the country--perhaps to rescue some one in great danger. He is the
sort who are always doing that. That's quite, quite likely, for it would
be in keeping with father's way. And he'd like me, of course, to be
unselfish, and never to