Mr. Challoner was writing his sermon, but on her words his pen paused; then he looked up at her.
“Very well, dear,” he said. “You know my feeling about it; but it is a thing in which you must do as you think right. And, Helen,” again he paused, and his eyes wandered away from her and were bent on his paper, “tell me, when you come back, how the lad looks, if he seems well.”
She came closer to him. This was the first sign he had shown that he recognised Martin’s existence.
“Ah, father, come with me,” she said.
But he shook his head.
“No, dear; no, dear,” he said, and went on with his work.
But, on this March morning of windy brightness, what gave the comble to her happiness was the talk—the first intimate one for all these weeks—which she had had with her father the night before. She had gone to her room as usual after prayers, but finding there some parish-work, concerning outdoor relief, which she ought to have done and taken to him the day before, she sat up for nearly a couple of hours, until she had finished it. Then with the papers in her hand she went down to his study.
“I am so sorry, father,” she said. “You told me you wanted these yesterday, and I absolutely forgot to do them. They are finished now.”
He looked up in surprise.
“Why, Helen,” he said, “it is after twelve. You ought to have been in bed long ago. Have you been sitting up to do them?”