“I do not believe papa is feeling very well; perhaps I ought to have gone.”
“Shall I take you to him?” Paul asked, considerately.
“Not just yet. I would like to see Madam Sylvester a moment, if we can find her; but first tell me”—and the beautiful face instantly lost all its lovely color—“have you heard again from—from—Earle?”
“Yes; I had a letter day before yesterday, and he is not very well, he writes; the doctor does not think the climate exactly agrees with him,” Mr. Tressalia answered, his own face growing grave as he saw the brightness die out of hers.
Editha sighed, and the old grieved look returned to her lips.
“Would you like to read his letter? I have it with me,” he asked, considerately.
“No, no; I could not do that. Tell me, please, what you like about him; but I cannot quite bear to read his own words just yet,” she said, with unutterable sadness.
“My poor little friend, your lot is a hard one,” he said, softly.
“Don’t pity me, please—life is hard enough for us all, I think,” she returned, quickly and bitterly.
“Earle thinks he will have to have a change as soon as he can get away,” Mr. Tressalia continued, “and asks if I will resume the charge of Wycliffe for him. Shall I tell you all that he says about it?”