“Nay, let some of the servants do that, not you, my child.”
But Olive, innocent as she was, had accidentally seen the footman smile rudely when he spoke of “master coming home last night;” and a vague thought struck her, that such late hours were discreditable in the head of a family. Her father should not be despised in his servant's eyes.
She dismissed the household, and waited up for him alone. Twelve—one—two. The hours went by like long years. Heavily at first drooped her poor drowsy eyes, and then all weariness was dispelled by a feeling of loneliness—an impression of coming sorrow. At last, when this was gradually merging into fear, she heard the sound of the swinging gate, and her father's knock at the door—A loud, unsteady, angry knock.
“Why do you stay up for me? I don't want anybody to sit up,” grumbled Captain Rothesay, without looking at her.
“But I liked to wait for you, papa.”
“What, is that you, Olive?” and he stepped in with a lounging, heavy gait.
“Did you not see me before? It was I who opened the door.”
“Oh, yes—but—I was thinking of something else,” he said, throwing himself into the study-chair, and trying with an effort to seem just as usual. “You are—a very good girl—I'm much obliged to you. The pleasure is—I may truly say on both sides.” And he energetically struck the table with his hand.
Olive thought this an odd form of speech; but her father's manner was grown so changed of late—sometimes he seemed quite in high spirits, even jocose—as he did now.
“I am glad to see you are not much tired, papa. I thought you were—you walked so wearily when you first came in.”