"Your mother is very tired to-night, Effie," he said in a grave voice.
He sat down in the armchair just where he could smell the sweet-peas and the Banksia roses.
"Yes," he continued, "I am anxious about her." There was not a trace now of any of the jollity which had marked him at supper. His face was gray and worn—his voice decidedly husky. That huskiness in her father's voice went like a stab to Effie's heart. She shut the door and went and stood by his side.
"Don't you think you had better go upstairs and help your mother to get to bed?"
"No; she likes best to be alone," replied Effie. "I want to sit by you. What is the matter with your throat?"
"My throat!—why?"
"You are so husky."
"I am dead beat, that's the truth of it. I am as weak as a cat, and for no earthly reason. Don't bother about my throat, it will be all right after I have had a good night's rest. I tell you, Effie, I never saw a child so ill as that little Freda Harvey. That woman who nursed her is an angel—an angel."
"I didn't say too much about her, father, did I?" said Effie, with a little note of triumph coming into her voice even in the midst of her anxiety.
"That you didn't, my darling—she is one of God's angels and I say 'God bless her!' Now I want to talk about your mother."