Perhaps the sigh was loud enough to penetrate into the room behind, where Pattie was busy, putting a few last touches. It was easy to see that Pattie was tired with her week's toil, very tired indeed. The blue eyes were heavy, with dark shadows under them, and the small face was quite colourless. Yet as she came to the door, perhaps in response to that sigh, she smiled and spoke in a cheerful tone; for when Mr. Dale was depressed, Pattie was sure to wear a bright face.
"How the birds do sing, daddy! Isn't it sweet?"
"My dear, a man has to be easy in himself before he can enjoy birds' singing."
"Do you think so? They comfort me. Poor little things—they all seem so happy."
"For how long, I wonder?"
Pattie was silent, and Mr. Dale made a doleful attempt at a rally.
"Come—this won't do. I get a fit of the dumps now and then—not much wonder if I do, considering! But you mustn't mind me, my dear. Things can't be helped. How are you doing in the house? Got everything ship-shape?"
"I have just finished the books. They look nice. Come and see them."
She led him in as if he had been a child, and showed him the small book-case in their tiny dining-room, neatly filled.
"We must read them all through together. I think books are such friends, don't you? The only friends you and I are likely to have."