LITMIR.BIZ

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her. “Did you speak of her?” he repeated.

      “Yes, dear papa,” said Flora, not losing presence of mind, though in extreme fear of what the next question might be. “She is quiet and comfortable, so don’t be uneasy, pray.”

      “Let me hear,” he said, and his whole voice and air showed him to be entirely roused. “There is injury? What is it—”

      He continued his inquiries till Flora was obliged fully to explain her sister’s condition, and then he dismayed her by saying he would get up and go to see her. Much distressed, she begged him not to think of it, and appealed to Alan, who added his entreaties that he would at least wait for Mr. Ward; but the doctor would not relinquish his purpose, and sent her to give notice that he was coming.

      Mr. Ernescliffe followed her out of the room, and tried to console her, as she looked at him in despair.

      “You see he is quite himself, quite collected,” he said; “you heard now clear and coherent his questions were.”

      “Can’t it be helped? Do try to stop him till I can send to Mr. Ward.”

      “I will try, but I think he is in a state to judge for himself. I do, upon my word; and I believe trying to prevent him would be more likely to do him harm than letting him satisfy himself. I really think you need not be alarmed.”

      “But you know,” said Flora, coming nearer, and almost gasping as she whispered and signed towards the door, “she is there—it is mamma’s room, that will tell all.”

      “I believe he knows,” said Alan. “It was that which made him faint after the accident, for he had his perceptions fully at first. I have suspected all day that he was more himself than he seemed, but I think he could not bear to awaken his mind to understand it, and that he was afraid to hear about her—your sister, so that our mention of her was a great relief, and did him good. I am convinced he knows the rest. Only go on, be calm, as you have been, and we shall do very well.”

      Flora went to prepare. Ethel eagerly undertook to send to Mr. Ward, and hastened from the room, as if in a sort of terror, shrinking perhaps from what might lead to an outburst of grief. She longed to have seen her father, but was frightened at the chance of meeting him. When she had sent her message, and told her brothers what was passing, she went and lingered on the stairs and in the passage for tidings. After what seemed a long time, Flora came out, and hastened to the nursery, giving her intelligence on the way.

      “Better than could be hoped, he walked alone into the room, and was quite calm and composed. Oh! if this will not hurt him, if the seeing baby was but over!”

      “Does he want her?”

      “Yes, he would have come up here himself, but I would not let him. Nurse, do you hear? Papa wants baby; let me have her.”

      “Bless me, Miss Flora, you can’t hold her while you are all of a tremble! And he has been to Miss Margaret?”

      “Yes, nurse, and he was only rather stiff and lame.”

      “Did Margaret seem to know him?” said Ethel.

      “She just answered in that dreamy way when he spoke to her. He says he thinks it is as Mr. Ward believes, and that she will soon come to herself. He is quite able to consider—”

      “And he knows all?”

      “I am sure he does. He desired to see baby, and he wants you, nurse. Only mind you command yourself—don’t say a word you can help—do nothing to agitate him.”

      Nurse promised, but the tears came so fast, and sobs with them, as she approached her master’s room, that Flora saw no composure could be expected from her; and taking the infant from her, carried it in, leaving the door open for her to follow when wanted. Ethel stood by listening. There was silence at first, then some sounds from the baby, and her father’s voice soothing it, in his wonted caressing phrases and tones, so familiar that they seemed to break the spell, drive away her vague terrors, and restore her father. Her heart bounded, and a sudden impulse carried her to the bedside, at once forgetting all dread of seeing him, and chance of doing him harm. He lay, holding the babe close to him, and his face was not altered, so that there was nothing in the sight to impress her with the need of caution, and, to the consternation of the anxious Flora, she exclaimed, abruptly and vehemently, “Papa! should not she be christened?”

      Dr. May looked up at Ethel, then at the infant; “Yes,” he said, “at once.” Then added feebly and languidly, “Some one must see to it.”

      There was a pause, while Flora looked reproachfully at her sister, and Ethel became conscious of her imprudence, but in a few moments Dr. May spoke again, first to the baby, and then asking, “Is Richard here?”

      “Yes, papa.”

      “Send him up presently. Where’s nurse?”

      Ethel retreated, much alarmed at her rash measure, and when she related it she saw that Richard and Mr. Ernescliffe both thought it had been a great hazard.

      “Papa wants you,” was a welcome sound to the ears of Richard, and brought a pink glow into his face. He was never one who readily showed his feelings, and there was no danger of his failing in self-command, though grievously downcast, not only at the loss of the tender mother, who had always stood between him and his father’s impatience, but by the dread that he was too dull and insignificant to afford any help or comfort in his father’s dire affliction.

      Yet there was something in the gentle sad look that met him, and in the low tone of the “How d’ye do, Ritchie?” that drove off a thought of not being loved; and when Dr. May further added, “You’ll see about it all—I am glad you are come,” he knew he was of use, and was encouraged and cheered. That his father had full confidence and reliance in him, and that his presence was a satisfaction and relief he could no longer doubt; and this was a drop of balm beyond all his hopes; for loving and admiring his father intensely, and with depressed spirits and a low estimate of himself, he had begun to fancy himself incapable of being anything but a vexation and burden.

      He sat with his father nearly all the evening, and was to remain with him at night. The rest were comforted by the assurance that Dr. May was still calm, and did not seem to have been injured by what had passed. Indeed, it seemed as if the violence and suddenness of the shock, together with his state of suffering, had deadened his sensations; for there was far less agitation about him than could have been thought possible in a man of such strong, warm affections and sensitive temperament.

      Ethel and Norman went up arm-in-arm at bedtime.

      “I am going to ask if I may wish papa good-night,” said Ethel. “Shall I say anything about your coming?”

      Norman hesitated, but his cheeks blanched; he shuddered, shook his head without speaking, ran up after Harry, and waved her back when she would have followed.

      Richard told her that she might come in, and, as she slowly advanced, she thought she had never seen anything so ineffably mournful as the affectionate look on her father’s face. She held his hand and ventured—for it was with difficulty she spoke—to hope he was not in pain.

      “Better than it was, thank you, my dear,” he said, in a soft weak tone: then, as she bent down to kiss his brow; “you must take care of the little ones.”

      “Yes, papa,” she could hardly answer, and a large drop gathered slowly in each eye, long in coming, as if the heart ached too much for them to flow freely.

      “Are they all well?”

      “Yes, papa.”

      “And good?” He held her hand, as if lengthening the interview.

      “Yes, very good all day.”

      A long deep sigh. Ethel’s two tears stood on her cheeks.

      “My love to them all. I hope I shall see them to-morrow. God bless you, my dear, good-night.”

      Ethel went upstairs, saddened and yet soothed. The calm silent sorrow, too deep for outward tokens, was so unlike her father’s usually demonstrative habits, as to impress her all the more, yet those two tears were followed

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