"Is it?"—lifting his head to look at her. "Are you in trouble? Who's been hurting you?" in his impetuous way.
"No one. Jack, your father has come home."
"Father!—come home!" in a bewildered voice. "Father come home! I say," and he began to get excited, "I must get up at once. Then he wasn't dead after all?"
"Stay a bit, Jack; he is very ill—and very poor." She knew the dreams the lad had cherished, of how his father would return, of the grand treasures he was to bring his boy.
"Poor!" he exclaimed; "then why didn't he write and tell you so? Why did he leave us all this time!"
"Jack," she answered gently, "I expect it was because he was so disappointed at not finding the fortune," and then she told him all the story of how she had found Ralph.
"Has he asked after me?"
"No, not yet. You see he is very ill."
"Not asked after me! And been here all night!" He was rather glad to have this fresh reason for anger.
"You must not take any notice of that. Remember how ill he is. Sick people cannot be expected to be thoughtful. Get dressed now, and then come and tell him you are glad he has come home."