Prosperity's child

by Eleanora H. Stooke

"I hope your father will come home soon for it's getting very foggy, I see," Mrs. Wyndham remarked by-and-by when there was a pause in the children's chatter. Her voice was soft and musical, with a plaintive note in it. "He coughed continually during the night, he quite alarmed me," she added, with a deep-drawn sigh.

"I heard him," the eldest girl said, turning a pair of serious, dark eyes from the fire to her mother's face; "I spoke to him about it after breakfast, and he said he would get some cough mixture from a chemist: I hope he won't forget."

"I hope not," Mrs. Wyndham replied. "I am sure it is no wonder that he ails so often," she proceeded, "always rushing here, there, and everywhere as he does, getting his meals so irregularly, and wearing clothes which do not properly protect him from the cold and damp. He ought to have both a new overcoat and a new waterproof this winter, but how he is to get either I really do not know. Dear me, it's nearly five o'clock. I hope Barbara has the kettle on the boil: I wish one of you would go and see—not you, Billy, you're always quarrelling with Barbara, you tease her and make her cross. Let Madge go. And Violet, you light the gas and pull down the blind."

Madge left the room to do her mother's bidding, whilst Violet, before lighting the gas, went to the window and peered out into the mist, remarking that it was so thick that she could hardly see the street lamps. Ruth kept her seat by the fire; she was listening for her father's footsteps—or his cough, which had haunted her ears all day.

The Wyndhams were all nice-looking children, tall for their ages and well-grown; they greatly resembled their mother in appearance. Mrs. Wyndham was a pretty woman, having a clear complexion, small regular features, and brown eyes and hair. At the time of her marriage she had been a lovely girl; but now she was somewhat faded and careworn, and she always seemed weighed down with domestic worries.

Mr. Wyndham held a post on a popular daily paper; but, unfortunately, his wife was no manager, and he was generally exercised in mind how to make his income cover his expenses, which he was not always successful in doing. If his wife was not the helpmeet to him he had hoped she would be, he never admitted the fact; and if his home was not as comfortable as those of other men who earned less than he did, he never complained but made the best of things, telling himself that he had much to be thankful for in that his family was both a happy and a healthy one.

He was deeply attached to his children, and they were very fond of him; but Ruth, without doubt, was more to him than the others. Young as she was, she was in his confidence; she was interested in his work as work, not only as a means of providing the necessaries of life, and she realised, as her mother did not, that he loved his profession and was ambitious to succeed in it. In short, she understood him; and her love for him was so deep and unselfish that she would have been capable of making any sacrifice for his sake.

By-and-by Ruth rose from her seat by the fire, and slipped quietly out of the room. There was no light in the passage, so she lit the gas there, and, as soon as she had done so, the front door opened and her father entered. She sprang to meet him, and, after having given him a hearty kiss, proceeded to assist him in taking off his overcoat. Mr. Wyndham was a tall, thin man with stooping shoulders and near-sighted dark eyes. As a rule his expression was thoughtful and pre-occupied; but to-night, as his daughter observed at once, he looked particularly alert.

"Well, Ruthie," he began, "is tea ready? I'm longing for 'the cup which cheers,' for the fog is enough to choke one. I'm glad to be at home and to know that I shall not have to go out again to-night."

He followed Ruth into the sitting-room as he spoke, and glanced around with smiling eyes. His wife's face brightened as she saw his look, and she greeted him with an answering smile, whilst Madge and the boys began to question him about the fog. Was it much worse in the City than at Streatham? Did he think it would last long? Had he any difficulty in finding his way from the station?