"Papa, are you angry," said Isabel, while the tears came afresh to her beautiful eyes.
"No, my child, no. It was right, it was best. But your mother, is she so very ill?"
"She is asleep now! That was the reason I only cried very softly when Mary Fuller went away with the bird—Mary made me promise not to cry out loud, for fear of waking her."
Chester arose and moved softly toward the bedroom. It had a desolate and poverty-stricken look—that little room—but still was neatly arranged and tidy in every part. The bureau was gone, and the straw-bed, though made with care, looked comfortless in comparison with the couch in which we first saw Isabel.
Mrs. Chester was lying upon the bed sleeping heavily, her cheeks were crimson, and there was some difficulty in her breathing which seemed unnatural. Still there did not seem to be cause for apprehension. Since her troubles came on, the poor wife had often been a sufferer from nervous headaches, and this seemed but a more violent attack than usual.
Chester put the hair away from her forehead, and kissing it, softly went out, thankful that she was not awake to hear his evil news.
He sat down by the window, for it was now early spring, and Isabel crept to his side. The little creature found in his presence consolation for the loss of her bird. They had been sitting together perhaps half an hour, when Mary Fuller came in; her face bore a look of keen disappointment, and her eyes were full of tears.
"You have told him?" she said, addressing Isabel, "you have told him about it?"
"Yes, my good little girl, she told me. You were very right to sell the bird," said Chester, reaching forth his hand.
The child came close to him and looked earnestly in his face.