She ran back to her chair, and her father turned anxious eyes on the letter again. He did not notice that his girls looked at him often, and very wonderingly. Presently he went to the telephone and put in a long-distance call to Chicago. Two years previous he had taken a course of study at the seminary in Chicago, and ever since had made frequent appointments with Doctor Hancock necessitating hurried trips to the city.
"Some old 'prof' at the seminary, I suppose," Doris said lightly. "They won't let us preachers settle down and preach and be comfortable nowadays. They keep us up and coming every minute, studying this and studying that, and then practising what we study on the public. It is no easy matter being a preacher any more."
And so, although the Chicago trips had grown more and more frequent, Doris gave them small heed.
But after her father had left the house the next morning, she walked soberly up-stairs to where Rosalie was dressing for school and said, "Rosalie, I hate to push my worries on to you, but—does—father act funny some way? Or do I imagine it? He seems so serious and anxious."
"He has been rather quiet lately," said Rosalie slowly.
"I am sure he is not well. I wish he did not take these Chicago trips so often. I think they expect entirely too much of us preachers. He is always tired and worried when he gets home. If we had a bishop, I think I should report it."
Rosalie said nothing.
Both girls watched their father closely when he returned home late that night. He was tired indeed, and his eyes were darkly circled. He did not laugh so freely as usual at their merry chatter, and though he was tender with them as always, he seemed distrait and absent-minded, which was not like him. And Doris pondered over it anxiously.
The next morning he came down-stairs wearing wide amber glasses, "which," he explained apologetically, "I am not wearing for style, I assure you, but the light seems rather too much for me. I think it causes the headaches."