Later on in the morning her father came and stood for a second or two silently beside her bed. Her eyes were closed when he came, but presently, as if drawn by the magnetism of his tender gaze, the heavy lids slowly opened, and she looked at him. She looked so pale and so small in the big bed, and there was such a look of sorrow around her drooping mouth, that Deydier’s heart ached almost to the point of breaking, and great tears gathered in his eyes and rolled slowly down his rough cheeks.
The child drew a long sigh of tenderness, almost of pity, and put out her arms. He gathered her to his breast, pillowing the dear head against his heart, while he could scarcely control the heavy sobs that shook his powerful shoulders, or stay the tears that wetted her curls.
“My Nicolette!” he murmured somewhat incoherently. “My little Nicolette, thou’lt not do it, my little girl, not that—not that—I could not bear it.”
Then he laid her down again upon the pillows, and kissed away the tears upon her cheeks.
“Father,” she murmured, and fondled his hand which she had captured, “you must try and forgive me, I was stupid and thoughtless. I ought to have explained better. But I was unhappy, very unhappy. Then I don’t know how it all happened—I did not look where I was going, I suppose—and I stumbled and fell—it was stupid of me,” she reiterated with loving humility; “but I forgot the time, the weather—everything—I was so unhappy——”
“So unhappy that you forgot your poor old father,” he said, trying to smile, “whose only treasure you are in this world.”
“No, dear,” she replied earnestly. “I did not forget you. On the contrary, I thought and thought about you, and wondered how you could be so unkind.”
He gave a quick, weary sigh.
“We won’t speak about that now, my child,” he said gently, “all you have to do is to get well.”
“I am well, dear,” she rejoined, and as he tried to withdraw his hand she grasped it closer and held it tightly against her bosom: