“There,” he said; “it’s quite a triumph for you girls to see how weak a man can be. Now, then; let’s clear all this up—this absurd nonsense about the boys.”
“You can’t bear it now, daddy,” said Saxa, with tears in her eyes.
“I can bear it, little woman. Now, come, my darlings, what silly jealous nonsense is this you have got in your pretty heads? But I’m glad—very glad. You can both be very soft and gentle, I see, when the proper time comes. But fie! Saxa. Shame! Dana. It is madness. Neil? The nurse? Why, my darling, I did not think you could be so fond of my great, solemn, dreamy boy. But—jealous—and of my good, patient, gentle attendant! Oh, tush! Nonsense!”
He laughed feebly, looking from one to the other, as if seeking for a confession that their charge was only the result of a little pique due to inattention on the part of his sons.
But Saxa and Dana remained by his couch, stern and hard of countenance; and as he watched the frowns gathering on their brows the feeble laugh died away, and his right hand began to tremble again.
“Speak,” he said at last, after a painful pause, and he fixed his eyes on the elder sister, whose voice sounded deep and sonorous as she said slowly:
“I’m sorry I spoke, dear,” she said. “It was in my passion.”
“And it is all folly,” said Elthorne hastily.
“No, daddy,” cried Saxa, with a flash of mortified pride in her eyes; “it is all too true.”
“What!” cried Elthorne, turning his eyes on Dana. “Yes,” said the latter, repeating her sister’s words; “it is all too true.”