“Yes, father,” she said, making an effort to be calm, “it is time you went down. Give my dear love to Madelaine.”
“Eh? Give your love? why, you are coming too.”
“No, no,” she said hastily; “I—I am not well this evening.”
“No, you are not well,” he said tenderly. “Your hands are icy, and—yes, I expected so, your forehead burns. Why, my darling, you must not be ill.”
“Oh, no, dear. I am not going to be ill, I shall be quite well to-morrow.”
“Then come with me. The change will do you good.”
“No; not to-night, father. I would rather stay.”
“But Madelaine is in sad trouble too, my child, and she will be greatly disappointed if you do not come.”
“Tell her I felt too unwell, dear,” said Louise imploringly, for her father’s persistence seemed to trouble her more and more; and he looked at her wonderingly, she seemed so agitated.
“But I don’t like to leave you like this, my child.”