“Yes; that is, I shall be,” said the old gentleman artfully, “if you cry. And if you want to please me, Phronsie, you will be very glad that I wrote to Roslyn. I want to see you happily settled myself, child, and to enjoy it all. Why, I expect to live years and years, Phronsie;” and he sat erect, and looked so handsome and strong, that Phronsie smiled through her tears. “Don’t you love him, child?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes, Grandpapa,” said Phronsie, “I do.”
“Very much?” asked old Mr. King, with a dreadful pang at his heart.
“Very much indeed,” said Phronsie.
“Child, child, why didn’t you tell me?” he cried, holding her to him remorsefully. “Oh, why didn’t you tell your old Grandpapa?” he groaned.
It was now Phronsie’s turn to comfort him; for he felt so very badly, that it was some time before she could get him out of the dreadful state into which he was plunged. But at last they emerged from the little brown house hand in hand, Phronsie looking up into his smiling face.
“I’ve been hunting just everywhere for you, father dear,” cried Polly, running down the terrace to meet them, and waving a yellow envelope. “It’s from Mamsie, of course. Do open it, Grandpapa,” lapsing, as she often did, into the old familiar title, “and see what she says.”
With a merry laugh, and holding it so that Phronsie could see, the old gentleman tore it open, and stared blankly at the words:—
Hotel Constanzi, Rome, June 22, 18—.
“Roslyn May very ill with low fever. Come and bring Phronsie.