“I am very sorry I came, papa, but I see you so seldom,” she said softly. “Papa, dear, let me come and read to you.”
“No, no,” cried Elthorne peevishly. “Nurse is going to read. Besides, you have company downstairs. Burwood has not gone?”
“No, papa.”
“And you come away and leave him? There, go down again, and do, pray, help your aunt to keep up some of the old traditions of the place. What will Burwood think?”
Isabel gave a kind of gasp, her forehead wrinkled up, and the tears rose to her eyes, but at that moment she saw those of the nurse fixed upon her inquiringly, and in an instant she flushed up and darted a look full of resentment at “this woman,” who appeared to be gratifying a vulgar curiosity at her expense.
“Did you hear me, Isabel?” cried her father, querulously. “Pray, go down. You fidget me. Go down to Burwood, and if he asks, tell him I am very much better, and that I shall be glad to see him soon.”
“Yes, papa,” she said faintly; and turning back to the door, she had her hand upon it, when, moved by an affectionate impulse, she ran back quickly, bent down and kissed him.
“Good girl!” he said. “Good girl! Now make haste down.”
She glanced quickly at the nurse, and the resentful flush once more suffused her cheeks, for those eyes were still watching her, and this time there was a smile upon the slightly parted lips.
The girl’s eyelids dropped a little and she replied with a fixed stare before once more reaching the door and passing out.