Elfie opened the library door and drew him in there, and helped him off with his wrappings and with his overcoat, and placed the easy-chair near the fire, and brought him his bootjack and slippers, and performed all the affectionate little services that Erminie was accustomed to render her father.
“Where is my Minie?” inquired the old man, extending his hands over the warm fire, when he had made himself comfortable.
“Gone to bed very tired, leaving me to be your daughter for this once.”
“And a nice little daughter you are, my dear. I wish Justin had taken a fancy to you instead of to that Tammany Hall reformer.”
“So do I! But he hadn’t the good taste to do so, you see,” said Elfie, saucily.
“And my Minie was tired. No wonder, poor dear! She has had a great many cares lately, with so much company staying in the house. I am not alluding to you, my dear, for you are a help and a Godsend! And Eastworth?”
“Oh, he has retired too (from the establishment),” added Elfie, in a mental reservation.
“Ah, yes, well. I must have some supper now, my dear, since you are my daughter.”
Elfie rang, and supper was served; and then the old man and the young girl separated and retired to their respective rooms.
And dear, unselfish Elfie, now that her fortitude could be of use to no one under the sun, broke down and wept all night, soaking her pillow with her tears.