“Not to-morrow, nor the next day, nor the next.”
“Go on; I am bearing it,” said Sibyl.
She stood absolutely upright, white as a sheet, her eyes queerly dilated, but her lips firm.
“It’s a great shock, but I am bearing it,” she said again. “When will I see him?”
Miss Winstead turned now and looked at her.
“Child,” she said, “don’t look like that.”
“I’m looking no special way; I’m only bearing up. Is father dead?”
“No; no, my dear. No, my poor little darling. Oh, you ought to have been told; but he did not wish it. It was his wish that you should have a happy time in the country. He has gone to Queensland; he will be back in a few months.”
“A few months,” said Sibyl. “He’s not dead?” She sat down listlessly on the window seat. She heaved a great sigh.
“It’s the little shots that hurt most,” she said after a pause. “I wouldn’t have felt it, if you had said he was dead.”