“Ah, one dreams a great deal in a very short time. You were going to read to me, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Shall I begin?”
“You may as well, though I would as soon think.” There was a gentle tap at the door.
“Come in. No; see who that is, nurse. Why am I to be so worried! I’m not ill now,” he cried peevishly.
She crossed to the door and opened it, to find Isabel standing there, flushed and evidently agitated.
“May I come in and sit with you a little while, papa?” she said.
Elthorne shook his head.
“No,” he cried shortly, “and I will not be interrupted so. Your aunt was here just now. Pray do not be so tiresome, my dear child. I will send for you if I want you. Why have you left Burwood?”
A sob rose to Isabel’s throat, and as she saw the nurse standing there, book in hand, a feeling of dislike began to grow within her breast.
For why should not this be her task? Why was this strange woman to be always preferred to her? It should have been her office to read to the sick man, and she would gladly have undertaken the duty.