Dr. Spencer entered the drawing-room with Ethel, who tried to read his face as he saw Margaret—restored, as it seemed, to all her girlish bloom, and her eyes sparkling as they were lifted up, far beyond the present scene. Ethel had a moment’s sense that his expression was as if he had seen a death-blow struck, but it was gone in a moment, as he gently shook Margaret by the hand, and spoke a word of greeting, as though to recall her.
“Thank you,” she said, with her own grateful smile.
“Where is your father?” he asked of Ethel.
“Either at the hospital, or at Mr. Ramsden’s,” said Ethel, with a ghastly suspicion that he thought Margaret in a state to require him.
“Papa!” said Margaret. “If he were but here! But—ah! I had forgotten.”
She turned aside her head, and hid her face. Dr. Spencer signed Ethel nearer to him. “This is a more natural state,” he said. “Don’t be afraid for her. I will find your father, and bring him home.” Pressing her hand he departed.
Margaret was weeping tranquilly—Ethel knelt down beside her, without daring at first to speak, but sending up intense mental prayers to Him, who alone could bear her or her dear father through their affliction. Then she ventured to take her hand, and Margaret returned the caress, but began to blame herself for the momentary selfishness that had allowed her brother’s loss and her father’s grief to have been forgotten in her own. Ethel’s “oh! no! no!” did not console her for this which seemed the most present sorrow, but the flow of tears was so gentle, that Ethel trusted that they were a relief. Ethel herself seemed only able to watch her, and to fear for her father, not to be able to think for herself.
The front door opened, and they heard Dr. May’s step hesitating in the hall, as if he could not bear to come in.
“Go to him!” cried Margaret, wiping off her tears. Ethel stood a moment in the doorway, then sprang to him, and was clasped in his arms.
“You know it?” he whispered.