“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.”
“Yes, yes; please go, dear. I shall be so much better alone. There, it is growing late. You will not stop very long.”
“No; an hour or two. I must be guided by circumstances. If that man is there—I cannot help it—I shall stay a very short time.”
“That man, father?”