She could scarcely speak now; there was a film on her eyes, too. He saw it gathering fast, very fast. Suddenly she seemed to revive like a dying flame. Again she addressed him.
"Father!" she said, "why don't you take down the shutters?"
And with singular earnestness she fixed her eyes on his. Take down the shutters? The question seemed a stab sent through his very heart. Yet he mastered himself, and replied: "'Tis early yet; 'tis very early, my darling."
"No 'taint," she said, in her old pettish way, and then she murmured in a low and humbled tone: "Ah! I forget—I forget. I did not mean to be cross again. Indeed I did not, father, so pray forgive me."
"Don't think of it, my pet. Do you wish for anything?"
"Nothing, father, but that you would take down the shutters."
He tried to speak—he could not; only a few broken sounds gasped on his lips for utterance.
"Because you see," she continued with strange earnestness, "the customers will all be coming and wondering if they see the shop shut; and they will think me worse, and so—and so—"
She could not finish the sentence, but she tried to do so.
"And so you see, father." Again the words died away. Her father raised his head; he looked at her; he saw her growing very white. Again he bent, and softly whispered: "My darling, did you say your prayers this morning?"