Her father, shocked, and a little sobered, paused in his cruel speech. For minutes they remained—he leaning back with a stupefied air—she standing before him; her face drooped, and covered with her hands.
“Olive!” he muttered, in a repentant, humbled tone.
“Yes, papa.”
“I am quite ready. If you like, I'll go to bed now.”
Without speaking, she lighted him up-stairs—nay, led him, for, to his bitter shame, the guidance was not un-needed. When she left him, he had the grace to whisper—
“Child, you are not vexed about anything I said?”
She looked sorrowfully into his hot fevered face, and stroked his arm. “No—no—not vexed at all! You could not help it, poor father!”
She heard her mother's feeble voice speaking to him as he entered, and saw his door close. Long she watched there, until beneath it she perceived not one glimmer of light. Then she crept away, only murmuring to herself—
“O God! teach me to endure!”