“No, you shan’t trouble, dear. I can find it. You are busy, I can see.”
“Busy?” he said, in a dull way. “Oh, yes, I am, rather,” and he sighed.
“Is it anything very troublesome, anything I can help you with?” she inquired, as she turned over the pile of yellow-covered volumes. “I can sometimes, you know.”
He shook his head with a mirthless smile.
“I am afraid not, my dear,” he said, cheerlessly. “This is a matter which——” He stopped and gazed at her with a sad, vacant expression. “Have you found a book for Bessie? By the way, speaking of her reminds me. I called upon that strange Mr. Faradeane this morning.”
Olivia bent over the heap of dusty books, and, after a moment’s silence, said:
“Yes, papa; I am glad of that.”
“Are you? Why? Well, there’s not much to be glad of, for he was not at home.”
“He was out riding, perhaps,” she said, with the faintest tinge of disappointment in her voice.
“No, he was in,” said the squire, dryly. “He was in the house, for I saw him at the window as I went up the path.”