"It shan't come," said Effie.
"God grant it may not come," said the doctor in his husky voice.
He rose suddenly to his feet.
"I must go to bed," he said. "I have not had a real proper sleep for nights and nights. By the way, Effie, you know, of course, that my life is insured for a thousand pounds. If—if at any time that should be needed, it will be there; it is best for you to know."
"I wish you would not talk about it, father."
"Very well, I won't; but talking about things doesn't bring trouble any nearer. I hold it as an article of faith that each man should arrange all he can for the future of his family. Arranging for the future never hastens matters. There is a God above. He has led me all my days. I trust Him absolutely. I submit to His mighty will."
The doctor left the room—his broad back was bowed—he walked slowly.
Effie stood near the door of the little parlor, watching him, until his gray head was lost to view. Then she went back and sat on the old horse-hair sofa, with her hands clasped tightly before her.
"My father is the best man in the world," she murmured under her breath. "I never met anyone like my father—so simple—so straightforward—so full of real feeling—so broad in his views. Talk of a sequestered life making a man narrower; there never was a man more open to real conviction than father. The fact is, no girl ever had better parents than I have; and the wonderful thing is that they give me leave to go, and take their blessing with me. It is wonderful—it is splendid. Agnes must be taught to do my present work. I'll train her for the next three months; and then, perhaps, in the winter I can join Dorothy in London. Dear father, he is nervous about mother; but while he is there, no harm can come to her. I do not believe one could live without the other. Well, well, I feel excited and nervous myself. I had better follow father's example, and go to bed."