Dr. Spencer sent them all to bed, and the rest of the night was quiet; but Margaret could not deny, in the morning, that she felt terribly shattered, and she was depressed in spirits to a degree such as they had never seen in her before. Her whole heart was with Flora; she was unhappy at being at a distance from her, almost fretfully impatient for letters, and insisting vehemently on Ethel’s going to London.
Ethel had never felt so helpless and desolate, as with Margaret thus changed and broken, and her father absent.
“My dear,” said Dr. Spencer, “nothing can be better for both parties than that he should be away. If he were here, he ought to leave all attendance to me, and she would suffer from the sight of his distress.”
“I cannot think what he will do or feel!” sighed Ethel.
“Leave it to me. I will write to him, and we shall see her better before post time.”
“You will tell him exactly how it was, or I shall,” said Ethel abruptly, not to say fiercely.
“Ho! you don’t trust me?” said Dr. Spencer, smiling, so that she was ashamed of her speech. “You shall speak for yourself, and I for myself; and I shall say that nothing would so much hurt her as to have others sacrificed to her.”
“That is true,” said Ethel; “but she misses papa.”
“Of course she does; but, depend on it, she would not have him leave your sister, and she is under less restraint without him.”
“I never saw her like this!”