Anne was not sure whether the faintest smile of scorn touched his lips under the ragged gray mustache, or whether they were curved forever into that faint bitterness.
"I'm glad you've come, Annie. You can stay a while, can you?" It took him a long time to say this and Anne felt her nerves tighten between the words.
"As long as you need me. But you're not going to need me long. If you do as the doctor says, you'll soon be about. These things don't—don't mean anything permanent." Anne spoke cheerfully, but the dawning hope in her father's eyes shamed her to silence. She longed to turn her eyes away from that pitiful hope, but dared not.
"No—Annie—I won't get better." It begged again her assurance.
"Well, we'll do what the doctor says anyhow, papa."
"I've—never been sick——" James mumbled, "always—lived sensibly—just—my luck——"
"Don't worry about anything now, papa," Anne said soothingly, and disengaged her fingers.
"I—want—a drink, Annie."
She brought a glass of fresh, cold water, held it for him to drink and then, supporting him with one arm, deftly shook up the pillows and placed him comfortably on them.
"That—was fine—don't let mamma—she makes me nervous. She doesn't get what I say. Do I talk very thick, Annie?"