“You have a set of children to be proud of, Richard!” exclaimed Mrs. Arnott.
“To be surprised at—to be thankful for,” said Dr. May, almost inarticulately.
To see her father so happy with Mrs. Arnott necessarily drew Ethel’s heart towards her; and, when they had bidden him goodnight, the aunt instantly assumed a caressing confidence towards Ethel, particularly comfortable to one consciously backward and awkward, and making her feel as intimate as if the whole space of her rational life had not elapsed since their last meeting.
“Must you go, my dear?” said her aunt, detaining her over her fire. “I can’t tell how to spare you. I want to hear of your dear father. He looks aged and thin, Ethel, and yet that sweet expression is the same as ever. Is he very anxious about poor Margaret?”
“Not exactly anxious,” said Ethel mournfully—“there is not much room for that.”
“My dear Ethel—you don’t mean?—I thought—”
“I suppose we ought to have written more fully,” said Ethel; “but it has been very gradual, and we never say it to ourselves. She is as bright, and happy, and comfortable as ever, in general, and, perhaps, may be so for a long time yet, but each attack weakens her.”
“What kind of attack?”
“Faintness-sinking. It is suspended action of the heart. The injury to the spine deranged the system, and then the long suspense, and the shock—It is not one thing more than another, but it must go on. Dr. Spencer will tell you. You won’t ask papa too much about it?”
“No, indeed. And he bears it—”