"Dear father," said the girl, addressing the old man tenderly, "you will feel better for a cup of tea."
"No, my dear, I think not," he answered quietly.
"To please me, dear father," she still persisted.
And the old man allowed her to persuade him into drinking half a cup, but he would not eat or come to the table.
Christina ate a slice of bread and butter mechanically, and swallowed her tea, and had an almost guilty feeling when she felt less unutterably desolate than she had done half an hour ago.
Her mother had died early in the afternoon. As yet the real desolation had not swept over her. That would be, perhaps, when she had ministered all she could to her bereaved father, and came to lay her head on her pillow at night. Yes; the sorrow must wait till then.
She seated herself again by the arm-chair, and softly stroked her father's hand. She felt anxious about him. He had given way to no sorrow, had not, broken down in any way; but she thought he looked exceedingly pale, and there was a gravity about him which she did not quite like.
He soon took her hand in his, with a mute intimation that he did not wish to be stroked. And after a long silence, he said gravely, "Christina, my child, I do not think it will be long ere I follow your mother home."
"Dear father," she answered deprecatingly, "do not say so; you will feel better soon, I hope."
"I do not say it lightly, my dear; nor can I tell you why I think so; but I feel assured of it."