Nelly sighed, but made no reply. Perhaps in secret she thought how much trouble a little sincerity with the world would save us.
“We 'll be mighty lonesome after her,” said he, after a pause.
Nelly nodded her head in sadness.
“I was looking over the map last night, and it ain't so far away, after all,” said Dalton. “'T is n't much more than the length of my finger on the paper.”
“Many a weary mile may lie within that space,” said Nelly, softly.
“And I suppose we'll hear from her every week, at least?” said Dalton, whose mind vacillated between joy and grief, but still looked for its greatest consolations from without.
Poor Nelly was, however, little able to furnish these. Her mind saw nothing but sorrow for the present; and, for the future, difficulty, if not danger.
“You give one no comfort at all,” said Dalton, rising impatiently. “That's the way it will be always now, when Kate goes. No more gayety in the house; not a song nor a merry laugh! I see well what a dreary life there is before me.”
“Oh, dearest papa, I 'll do my very best, not to replace her, for that I never could do; but to make your days less wearisome. It will be such pleasure, too, to talk of her, and think of her! To know of her happiness, and to fancy all the fair stores of knowledge she will bring back with her when she comes home at last!”
“If I could only live to see them back again, Frank and Kate, one at each side of me, that 's all I ask for in this world now,” muttered he, as he stole noiselessly away and closed the door behind him.