“Yes. Poor Sarah! How she must suffer! It is very terrible. But look now, Mary—that dark mark beneath papa’s eyes.”
“Yes, I can see it,” said Mary, rising quickly, and going to the table, where she changed the position of the lamp, with the result that the dark shadow lay now across the sleeper’s lips. “There, that is not a dangerous symptom, Claudie.”
“Don’t laugh at me, Mary. You can’t think how I alarmed I am. These fits seem to come more frequently than they used. Ought not papa to have more advice?”
“It would be of no use, dear. I could cure him.”
“You?”
“Yes; or he could cure himself.”
“Mary!”
“Yes,” said the little, keen-looking body, kneeling down by her cousin’s side; “uncle has only to leave off worrying about making more money and piling up riches that he will never enjoy, and he would soon be well again.”
Claude sighed.
“See what a life he leads, always in such a hurry that he cannot finish a meal properly; and as to taking a bit of pleasure in any form, he would think it wicked. I haven’t patience with him. Yes, I have, poor old fellow—plenty. He has been very good to miserable little me.”