“Tired?”
Emily lifted her head from the back of the chair on which she had been resting it, fastened a lock of her hair, smiled and said:
“Oh, no.”
“You let that young John E., or whatever his name is, wear you out,” her father insisted, taking his glasses from his nose and marking his place in his book after his old custom.
“Poor child!” the mother said. “He’s not well. I dread the summer so.”
“He seems fretful,” said the father, with a shade of his original resentment lingering in his tone.
“Oh, it’s not that, father,” Emily replied. “He’s so active and full of energy. Mother Garwood says Jerome was just so when he was a baby.”
“Been over there?”
“Yes, I ran over to-day to ask her some things about baby. She knows all about them.”
“Well, you ought to have a nurse,” he said.