“Oh, Daddy! You do look tired! Haven't you been to bed? Poor Daddy!”
That hot clutch, and the words: “Poor Daddy!” brought tears into his eyes. They rolled slowly down to his beard, and he covered his face with the other hand. Her grip tightened convulsively; suddenly she dragged it to her lips, kissed it, and let it drop.
“Don't!” she said, and turned away her face.
Pierson effaced his emotion, and said quite calmly:
“Shall you wish to be at home, my dear, or to go elsewhere?”
Noel had begun to toss her head on her pillow, like a feverish child whose hair gets in its eyes and mouth.
“Oh! I don't know; what does it matter?”
“Kestrel; would you like to go there? Your aunt—I could write to her.” Noel stared at him a moment; a struggle seemed going on within her.
“Yes,” she said, “I would. Only, not Uncle Bob.”
“Perhaps your uncle would come up here, and keep me company.”