“Good-morning, my dear boy,” was the answer, in trembling tones; and then, with the ghost of a smile on the wan lips, “have you been—”
Morton had boisterously clasped Claire in his arms, and kissed her with effusion; and as he saw the loving, wistful look in his child’s face, as she passionately returned the caress—one that he told himself would never again be bestowed on him—a pang shot through the old man’s breast, and the agony seemed greater than he could bear.
“So—so glad to see you down again, my dear, dear, dear old Sis,” cried Morton, with a kiss at almost every word. Then, half holding her still, he turned to the pale, wistful face at the other side of the room, and exclaimed:
“Yes, sir. Don’t be angry with me. I have been down again, catching dabs.”
Volume One—Chapter Nine.
Wearing His Mask.
“Really, ladies, I—er—should—er—esteem it an honour, but my powers here are limited, and—”
“Rubbish!”