“Last night,” said Toby, reflectively, “she left him in his chair, instead of putting him to bed. I saw him. The room was dark, but he was so close to the window that the stars showed his form distinctly.”
“Then Elaine is neglecting poor gran’pa!” cried Phœbe, indignantly. “And he is so dependent on her kindness, too!”
Toby gave a low, apologetic cough.
“Your eyes are good, Miss Daring?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“Then look again, and carefully. Is that indeed your grandfather—is it really Mr. Eliot in the chair?”
Phœbe was surprised at the question, but she looked carefully.
“Of course. I’ve seen him sitting that way every day, for months past.”
“Can you see his face?”
“Not very well, from here. It is muffled up in his dressing gown, you know, so he won’t take cold.”