voice of Higgins, the groom, cursing wickedly. She had heard it before—the sound of old John Pentland's evil, beautiful red mare kicking the walls of her stall and screaming wildly. There was an unearthly, implacable hatred between her and the little apelike man . . . and yet a sort of fascination, too.
As she sat up in her bed, listening, and still startled by the wild sound, she heard her son saying:
"Mama, are you there?"
"Yes."
She rose and went into the other room, where, in the dim light from the night-lamp, the boy was sitting up in bed, his pale blond hair all rumpled, his eyes wide open and staring a little.
"You're all right, Jack?" she whispered. "There's nothing the matter?"
"No—nothing. I had a bad dream and then I heard the red mare."
He looked pale and ill, with the blue veins showing on his temples; yet she knew that he was stronger than he had been for months. He was fifteen, and he looked younger than his age, rather like a boy of thirteen or fourteen, but he was old, too, in the timeless fashion of those who have always been ill.
"Is the party over? . . . Have they all gone?" he asked.
"Yes, Jack. . . . It's almost daylight. You'd better try to sleep again."
He lay down without answering her, and as she bent to kiss him good-night, she heard him say softly, "I wish I could have gone to the party."
"You will, Jack, some day—before very long. You're growing stronger every day."
Again a silence, while Olivia thought bitterly, "He knows that I'm lying. He knows that what I've said is not the truth."
Aloud she said, "You'll go to sleep now—like a good boy."
