But he could remember, when he got home, and was carried up the well-remembered stairs, that there had been the rumbling of a coach for many hours together, while he lay upon the seat, with Florence still beside him, and Mrs. Pipchin sitting opposite. He remembered his old bed too, when they laid him down in it; but there was something else, and recent, too, that still perplexed him.
"I want to speak to Florence, if you please," he said. "To Florence by herself, for a moment!"
She bent down over him, and the others stood away.
"Floy, my pet, wasn't that papa in the hall, when they brought me from the coach?"
"Yes, dear."
"He didn't cry, and go into his room, Floy, did he, when he saw me coming in?"
Florence shook her head, and pressed her lips against his cheek.
"I'm very glad he didn't cry," said little Paul. "I thought he did. Don't tell them that I asked."
Paul never rose from his little bed. He lay there, listening to the noises in the street quite tranquilly; not caring much how time went, but watching everything about him with observing eyes. And when visitors or servants came softly to the door to inquire how he was, he always answered for himself, "I am better; I am a great deal better, thank you! Tell papa so!"
And sometimes when he awoke out of a feverish dream, in which he thought a river was bearing him away, he would see a figure seated motionless, with bowed head, at the foot of his couch. Then he would stretch out his hands and cry, "Don't be so sorry for me, dear papa! Indeed, I am quite happy!"