"But what is the matter, Pet?" exclaimed the father. She had dropped into a chair, and her head fell on one side. He sprang to catch her. So did Marcus. But the inventor reached her first, and seized her in his arms, directing another of his speaking looks at Marcus.
Pet roused herself at the touch of her father's hands, sat erect, and opened her large blue eyes. "I am so sleepy," she said.
"Of course you are, my blessed; and to bed you must go at once. That is my prescription. But, first--always first--a cup of tea."
The inventor darted to the stove, snatched up the teapot, poured out a cup of the universal restorer, scalding his forefinger in the hurry, milked and sugared it just right, and bore it to his daughter, who was nodding again. She drank it dutifully, like medicine.
Children do not comprehend tea. We have to grow up to it. It is the appointed balm of fatigued and sorrowing middle age.
In its function of medicine, the strong draught revived her, giving a twist to her pretty features, and sending a lively shudder through her slender frame. Pet rose from her seat quite briskly.
"Now to bed. To bed at once. No delay. And mind you put on all the blankets, and your heavy shawl a-top of them."
"Yes, father."
Marcus blushed, twirled his hat, and made a motion toward the door.
"You need not go, Mr. Wilkeson," said the inventor. "I beg that you will not. I wish to settle up that little unfinished business with you to-night."