“Yes; he thought of something that might be an alleviation, and he would go, though he was tired. I am afraid the poor daughter will detain him, and he is not fit to go through such things now.”
“No, I hope he will soon come; perhaps Richard will meet him. But, oh, Margaret, what do you think Richard and I have been talking of?” and, without perception of fit times and seasons, Ethel would have told her story, but Margaret, too anxious to attend to her, said, “Hark! was not that his step?” and Dr. May came in, looking mournful and fatigued.
“Well,” said he, “I was just too late. He died as I got there, and I could not leave the daughter till old Mrs. Bowers came.”
“Poor thing,” said Margaret. “He was a good old man.”
“Yes,” said Dr. May, sitting wearily down, and speaking in a worn-out voice. “One can’t lightly part with a man one has seen at church every Sunday of one’s life, and exchanged so many friendly words with over his counter. ‘Tis a strong bond of neighbourliness in a small place like this, and, as one grows old, changes come heavier—‘the clouds return again after the rain.’ Thank you, my dear,” as Ethel fetched his slippers, and placed a stool for his feet, feeling somewhat ashamed of thinking it an achievement to have, unbidden, performed a small act of attention which would have come naturally from any of the others.
“Papa, you will give me the treat of drinking tea with me?” said Margaret, who saw the quiet of her room would suit him better than the bustle of the children downstairs. “Thank you,” as he gave a smile of assent.
That Margaret could not be made to listen this evening was plain, and all that Ethel could do, was to search for some books on schools. In seeking for them, she displayed such confusion in the chiffonier, that Flora exclaimed, “Oh, Ethel, how could you leave it so?”
“I was in a hurry, looking for something for Norman. I’ll set it to rights,” said Ethel, gulping down her dislike of being reproved by Flora, with the thought that mamma would have said the same.
“My dear!” cried Flora presently, jumping up, “what are you doing? piling up those heavy books on the top of the little ones; how do you think they will ever stand? let me do it.”
“No, no, Flora;” and Richard, in a low voice, gave Ethel some advice, which she received, seated on the floor, in a mood between temper and despair.