“Father dear, you look so weary,” Lucilla said with emotion. “Let me do something for you. Won’t you sit down to the table and have a cup of coffee, if nothing else?”
“Thank you, daughter. Perhaps it would help to strengthen me for the day’s trials and duties,” he replied, accepting the offered seat.
They were about leaving the table when Max came in.
“Good-morning, father, sister and brother,” he said, looking about upon them with a grave, concerned air. “I have just heard bad news from one of the servants—that my little brother is very ill. Father, I hope it is not true?”
“I am sorry, Max, my son, to have to say that it is only too true,” groaned the captain. “We have been up with him all night, and he is a very sick child.”
“Oh, that is sad indeed! Can I help with the nursing, father, or be of service in any way?”
“I don’t know, indeed; but come over all of you, as usual, to cheer us with your presence, and perhaps make yourselves useful in some other way.”
“Thank you, sir. I shall be glad to do anything I can to help or comfort; but—if our baby should cry, might it not disturb poor little Ned?”
“I think not; we have him in the old nursery. Her cry, if she should indulge in one, would hardly reach there, and if it did he is not in a state to notice it. So come over as usual; the very sight of you will do us all good.”
“I was going into town as usual,” said Chester, “but if I can be of any use—”