Mr. Egerton came slowly towards the house, raised his eyes, and found himself face to face with Clarice. He started, and after an evident struggle for composure, said,—
"How did this—when did you get better, Clarice? Would none of you take the trouble of telling me?" he added, sadly.
"Oh, papa, they none of them knew except Guy, until this evening. He helped me, and made these crutches. But indeed, papa, I should have told you, if I had thought you cared."
He looked at her earnestly for a moment, and then said,—
"Just so. Don't hurt yourself, Clarice. If you were to bring back inflammation, it might cost you your life. I should advise your standing but little at first."
"I will remember, papa. I shall go and lie down now, for I am tired."
She went in and lay down, tenderly aided by brothers and sisters, and, to her surprise, watched in silence by her father.
She could not get his words and look out of her head. What did he mean? Was it possible that his heart sometimes yearned for a little affection from his children—that he felt lonely and sad? But then, how could they be expected to feel affection for him? He had so completely neglected them all their lives, that Lizzie had once said, laughing, that until she married, he had never made up his mind which was Lizzie and which Helen!
"And I don't see how we could care for him," Clarice said to herself; but there was an uneasy feeling all the time. "He looked so sad," she thought, "that I cannot help pitying him. We are so happy together; he is so lonely. Mother was more to him than he thought. Yet after all, it is his own doing."
But Clarice had read her Bible too well for that to satisfy her. Words kept coming into her head all the evening.