So
when they were so much alone that all reserves were overcome, Armine
had comfort in his cousin that no one else in the place could have
afforded him. The little boy perfectly knew how ill he was, and as
he lay in John's arms, breathed out his messages to Babie as well as
he could utter them.
"And please, you'll be always mother's other son," said Armine.
"Won't I? She's been the making of me every way," said John.
"If ever-—she does want anybody-—" said Armine, feeling, but not
uttering, a vague sense of want of trust in others around her.
"I will, I will. Why, Armie, I shall never care for any one so
much."
"That's right."
And again, after an interval, Armine spoke of Jock, saying, "You'll
help him, Johnny. You know sometimes he can be put in mind—-"
John promised again, perhaps less hopefully, but he saw that Armine
hoped.
"Would you mind reading me a Psalm," came, after a great struggle for
breath. "It was so nice to know Babie was saying her Psalms at
night, and thinking of us."
So the evening wore away and night came on, and John, after full six-
and-twenty hours' wakeful exertion and anxiety, began to grow sleepy,
and dozed even as he held his cousin whenever the cough did not shake
the poor little fellow.
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