"She is with mamma; but I will go and relieve her now. You are to share her room. She has been longing for you to come."
Already Gladys's look had brightened, and she walked away with her usual quick, light step. She was not one to droop long under trouble. Like a bent flower, she could lift her head at the first break in the storm.
In a few minutes Nelly was in her sister's arms. The child's face looked worn and aged; the eyes were unnaturally bright, but showed no signs of weeping. At Aldyth's tender greeting, however, her composure gave way. She broke into heavy sobs as she clung to her sister.
"Oh, Aldyth, is it not dreadful? Poor papa!"
"Yes, dear, it is very sad," Aldyth said.
"I never thought—I never expected such a thing," sobbed Nelly. "Of course, I knew he was not well; but he had been out of sorts a long time, and mamma said the voyage would set him up. It is so sad that he should die away from us all. Aldyth, he should not have been allowed to go back alone."
Aldyth did not at once reply.
"Perhaps not," she said, presently; "but, Nelly, it is vain to think of that now."
"That is what makes it so dreadful!" cried Nelly. "Aldyth, I feel now that I never loved papa as I should. He was just papa, who found the money and saw we had everything we wanted. I took it all as a right, and never was a bit grateful. Do you know, one Saturday after you had gone to Woodham, he came in very tired, when mamma and Gladys were out, and I fetched his slippers and got some tea for him, just as you used to do. He seemed so surprised and pleased. He said, 'Why, Nelly, you are getting as thoughtful as Aldyth.' I felt reproached as he said it, though he did not mean it as a reproach."
"But you are thankful now, are you not, dear, that you did him that little service?" Aldyth said.