“I wish you would stay here every day. I don’t want to ever go back to the nasty old city. Why don’t you, papa?” He took his father’s hand again. “I want to show you where Patrick and me found a lot of clams yesterday.”
“Yes, dear.” Donald’s voice was scarcely audible. There were tears in his heart, if not in his eyes.
Edith came over to the child, and put her hand upon his curly head. “Kiss papa good-night, dear. It’s time you were in bed.”
“I don’t want to go to bed.” The boy looked at his father appealingly. “Papa, mayn’t I stay up a little longer?”
“Why, Bobbie, you always go to bed at seven o’clock.”
“Not nights when papa comes, mamma.”
The nurse took a step forward. “Come, Bobbie, that’s a good boy,” she coaxed, and held out her hand.
The tumult in Donald Rogers’ brain ceased. His face took on a look of determination; it was evident that he had arrived at a decision. He put his arm about the child’s shoulder. “Fannie, wait in the dining-room,” he said. “I will call you when I want you.” The nurse turned and went into the house.
“Donald—what are you going to do?” Edith looked at his set face, and a great fear entered her heart.
“Go over to that desk, and write what I tell you,” he demanded sternly, pointing to the writing-table in the hall.