While still some distance away, she forced herself to call cheerily,
"Hello, father."
As he raised his head, she turned to pick a few flowers from a near-by bed. When he had had a moment to regain, in a measure, his self-control, she went toward him, arranging her blossoms with careful attention.
Adam Ward watched his daughter as she drew near, much as a condemned man might have watched through the grating of a prison window.
"What is it, father?" she asked, gently, when she had come close to his side. "Another one of your dreadful nervous headaches?"
He put a shaking hand to his brow. "Yes," he said wearily.
"I am so sorry," she returned, sitting down beside him. "You have been thinking too hard again, haven't you?"
"Yes, I guess I have been thinking too hard."
"But you're going to stop all that now, aren't you?" she continued, cheerily. "You're just going to forget the old Mill, and do nothing but rest and play with me."
"Could I learn to play, do you think, Helen?"
"Why, of course you could, father, with me to teach you. That's the best thing I do, you know."