At last the steps of No. 8 were reached, and Wilmot walked up them, delighted to think that the time he had set himself was at last over. He knocked, and when a servant, a stranger to him, opened the door, he asked the usual question, "Is Dr. Arundel at home?" thinking that it did not very much matter what the answer might be.
The answer, however, did matter a great deal to him; for the cook informed him that "the doctor and family were out of town; went yesterday morning."
He could only leave his card, and turn away with such a sense of disappointment as he could not have believed possible.
"It serves me right," he said to himself, as he walked gloomily homewards, "it serves me right; I was just a wretch to leave her in all her sorrow just out of 'pique.' Well, I am sorry, but that won't mend it."
Meanwhile the days had passed but slowly to Nellie and the others, as days of bereavement do pass.
Looking round on the household she was "mothering," she felt that the hot summer weather, added to their sorrow, was telling unfavourably upon little Tom, while Netta and Isabel looked pale and spiritless.
One day, after all had gone to bed, and she and her father were left alone, she came over and knelt down by his side, laying her head on his shoulder.
"Tired, my child?" he said lovingly, putting his arm round her.
"N—o, dear papa," she answered sighing, "I have only been thinking."
How deeply he sighed in his turn; but presently said, "Well, dear?"