"Oh—I didn't see," she said in an embarrassed voice. "I—I beg your pardon. Won't you sit down? I'll call my mother—if—if she can come—"
"No, no, don't disturb her on any account. Pray don't. I dare say she has lots of things to do."
"She has—she is—rather busy," faltered Emmie, and a look of sorrowful trouble came to the sweet lips. "Oh, it is only—she would come, if—"
"I dare say she will look in presently; but don't call her. I only want to know how you are all getting on. The last three days have been so full, I couldn't find a minute. How is your father?"
"He—" Emmie shivered.
"Will you let me make up the fire? You are cold."
"Oh, no—I—"
Emmie knelt down on the rug, and poked vaguely at the red embers; whereupon Cyril bent over her, took the poker out of her hand which he found to be trembling, arranged the fading coals in a scientific fashion, and placed a few fresh pieces lightly one upon another. A flame sprang up as by magic. Then he laid hold upon those trembling little hands, lifted Emmie up, and placed her in the big arm-chair. She submitted as a child might have done, and sat where he put her, not crying as she would have cried for some minor matter, but with her mouth set in a sorrowful curve, and her eyes gazing into some unknown grief. The colour in her cheeks was much deeper than usual—a rich crimson-velvet tint—and the brow looked whiter, the eyes darker by contrast. Cyril had never seen her thus. His feelings were greatly stirred.
"I'm afraid you have been worried by something," he said sympathizingly.
Emmie gave him a pathetic smile. "I suppose one has to be worried sometimes," she said.