“My dear,” he said, in his fatherly way, “you were up all last night and must rest now. Come,” and he himself arranged the cushions for her on the couch and insisted that she should lie down.
“I wonder that you can endure the sight of me,” said Hilary, “after all the trouble I have caused you.”
He thought that in calmer moments she might regret having spoken so openly, and did not allow himself to refer to Gabriel.
“You forget that your father was my best friend, and that to be of service to you must always be a pleasure to me,” he said, kindly. “Try, if possible, to sleep, my dear; your uncle and I will make all needful arrangements.”
“What is the use of resting?—all is over; no one needs me,” she said, wildly.
“Nay,” he said; “be very sure that there will be need of all your strength in a country as full of sorrow as ours is now. So rest, my child, and wait.”
And then he bade her good-bye, and went his way to comfort and cure others that were ill in body and sad of soul.