“Oh, must you go?” she asked; and Elias thought her voice fell.
“Why,” he confessed, “I should like nothing better than to stay; only, I was afraid I might be in the way.”
“Oh, what an idea! Won't you come into the back room? It's warmer and cozier there.”
In the back room a bright fire crackled in the grate. Old Redwood sat before it, feet on fender, reading his newspaper. He greeted Elias, without rising; “Oh, it's you, is it, Mr. Bacharach? Glad to see you,” and went on reading.
Christine sank into a deep easy-chair at her father's left. Elias seated himself next to her. He did not speak. He had no desire to speak. He would gladly have sat there all day in silence, simply enjoying the sight of her, and his sense of closeness to her.
She said, “It is a pity to have brought you clear up here for nothing, Mr. Bacharach. It makes me feel guilty to think of the time you are losing.”
“My time,” he protested, “is not of such great value; and there's no place where I could spend it so pleasantly.”
“I should have written you a note,” she added, “telling you not to come; but I had no idea I was going to feel out-of-sorts. I felt as well as usual last night.”
“I'm very glad you didn't write the note,” he said, with haste and emphasis.
“Any way,” she reflected, “you couldn't have received it, could you? To-day being Sunday, it wouldn't have been delivered till to-morrow.”