“Are you sleepy, small dear?”
“No—no—not sleepy.”
Douglas Starr took her hand and held it tightly.
“Then we’ll have our talk, honey. I can’t sleep either. I want to tell you something.”
“Oh—I know it—I know it!” burst out Emily. “Oh, Father, I know it! Ellen told me.”
Douglas Starr was silent for a moment. Then he said under his breath, “The old fool—the fat old fool!”—as if Ellen’s fatness was an added aggravation of her folly. Again, for the last time, Emily hoped. Perhaps it was all a dreadful mistake—just some more of Ellen’s fat foolishness.
“It—it isn’t true, is it, Father?” she whispered.
“Emily, child,” said her father, “I can’t lift you up—I haven’t the strength—but climb up and sit on my knee—in the old way.”
Emily slipped out of bed and got on her father’s knee. He wrapped the old dressing-gown about her and held her close with his face against hers.