"Nay, my lady, it matters not. But the child—my Elizabeth—surely nothing is amiss that she delays coming to greet her father?"
Lady Phipps became thoughtful in an instant, and looked around, wondering where Elizabeth had bestowed herself.
The old man grew white and began to shiver.
"Is the child ill? What malady has found her out? You may tell me, lady, without fear; with God's help I—I can bear it."
The poor, self-tortured old man sat down on the edge of a chair and lifted his large, wild eyes to the lady's face, waiting for the expected blow with piteous trepidation.
Lady Phipps drew close to him, with both hands extended, and a world of gentle sympathy beaming in her face.
"My friend, my dear, good friend, there is nothing wrong; Elizabeth is well."
"Thank God," broke from the old man, while his clasped hands unlocked themselves and fell gently downward.
"I was only wondering where she had hid herself," continued the lady. "Surely, when her father was waiting, she should have been here."
"Nay, I can tarry for the child without weariness, so that she is but well," answered the old man, heaving a deep sigh of relief. "Nevertheless, if she is near at hand—"