The girl, watching him with a constantly increasing solicitude, could at last endure this condition of affairs no longer. He came home one night, leaving neither his stick nor hat in the outer hall, and sat down in the dining-room, muffled and great-coated, the picture of dejection. Patty, kneeling before him, removed his hat, smoothed his hair, and began to unbutton his overcoat.
‘Papa!’ she cried suddenly, ‘what is the matter with you? Why are you so changed?’
He breathed a great sigh, and laid his hand upon her head. Then he turned his face away from her—to hide his eyes, she fancied.
‘You are in trouble,’ she went on. ‘It is not kind to keep it from me. Is it anything that I have done, or anything I could do.’
‘No, no, my darling,’ he said softly, laying his hand upon her head again.
‘Is it money, dear?’
‘No, no. It isn’t money. Don’t talk about it, my dear. Don’t talk about it.’
‘Now, papa, you make me think it very grave indeed.’
‘There,’ he said, rising, ‘you shan’t see any more of it, and we’ll say no more about it Well be gay and bright again, and well hope that things will turn out for the best.’
The attempt to be gay and bright again resulted in most mournful failure, and the girl grew frightened. She had nursed her fears for many days, and had hidden them.