“Shall I go on reading where she left off?” said Neil, taking up the book and feeling a kind of pleasure in holding the little volume so lately in her hands.
“No, no, I am tired of poetry and history. What are you writing now?”
“Only some notes on a case that is taking up a good deal of attention just now.”
“Ah!” said the elder man eagerly. “I should like to hear that.”
“It is very dry and tedious, I’m afraid; only of interest to the professional man.”
“But I take an interest in such things now. Will you read it to me, Neil?”
“Of course, sir. I’ll fetch it,” said Neil, smiling at his father’s eagerness about matters that he would be unable to comprehend.
“That’s right, my boy. But you are sure that you will not think it a trouble?”
“My dear father,” cried Neil, taking his hand, “I wish you would try to understand me better. I’m afraid you do not.”
“Yes, yes, my boy. I do understand you, indeed I do. Don’t think because I have lain here, querulous and complaining, that I have been blind as well as helpless. God bless you, my boy, for all you have done!”