"I've come back to help take care of you, Pa."
His lips quivered, and she apprehended rather than heard what he said.
"I'm glad to see you again, daughter."
Dropping into the chair by the bedside, she laid her arms gently about him. "You don't suffer, do you?"
How immeasurably far away he seemed! How futile was any endeavour to reach him! Then she remembered that he had always been far away, that he had always stood just outside the circle in which they lived, as if he were a member of some affectionate but inarticulate animal kingdom.
He tried to smile, but the effort only accentuated the crooked line of his mouth.
"No, I don't suffer." For a moment he was silent; then he added in an almost inaudible tone: "It's sort of restful."
A leaden weight of tears fell on her heart. Not his death, but his life seemed to her more than she could bear. What was her pain, her wretchedness, compared to his monotony of toil? What was any pain, any wretchedness, compared to the emptiness of his life?
For a little while she talked on cheerfully, telling him of the lectures she had heard and the books she had read, and of all the plans she had made to help him with the farm.
"I've borrowed some money to start with, and we'll make something of it yet, Pa," she said brightly.