“Here, papa. If Dexter were the hardened boy you try to make him—”
“No, no: gently. He makes himself one.”
”—he would have gone up to bed to-night careless and indifferent after shedding a few fictitious tears—”
“Very likely.”
”—and be sleeping heartily by now.”
“As he is, I’ll be bound,” cried the doctor energetically.
“Of course, I may be wrong,” said Helen, “but Dexter strikes me as being so sensitive a boy—so easily moved, that, I am ready to say, I am sure that he is lying there half-heartbroken, crying bitterly, now he is alone.”
“I’ll soon prove that,” said the doctor sharply; and, crossing the room in his slippers, he silently lit a candle and went upstairs to Dexter’s door, where he stood listening for a few minutes, to find that all was perfectly still. Then turning the handle quietly, he entered, and it was quite half an hour before he came out.
“Well, papa?” said Helen, as the doctor returned to the drawing-room.
“You’re a witch, my dear,” he said.