"None, save my father."
"And have you never been lonely, and yearned for youthful companionship?"
"Oh, yes, often," and the bright tears sprang quickly into Virgie's blue eyes, as she thought of the nights she had wept herself to sleep from sheer homesickness and a feeling of utter desolation. "But," she continued more brightly, and winking rapidly to keep the tell-tale drops from falling. "I can bear loneliness, or almost anything else, for my father's sake."
"Poor child! brave little woman!" thought the man by her side, "it must have been very much like being buried alive, and she has borne it like a heroine; but she will not have to endure it much longer 'for her father.' I wonder what will become of her when he is gone."
"Mr. Abbot seems very feeble," he said aloud, "do you not think a change would be beneficial to him?"
"I—do not know," Virgie began wistfully; then added, more to herself than to him, "Where could we go?"
"I would advise the sea-shore. I should think the salt air would do him good. Santa Cruz, Monterey, or any of those places on the California coast, would be both pleasant and healthful."
A startled look came into Virgie's eyes, and her face grew pale.
She had often been to Santa Cruz and Monterey, in the old delightful days when her mother was living, where she had reigned like a little queen, and they had all been so happy, with no suspicion of the black shadow that was creeping upon them so surely.
"No, no, we could not go there; I—I do not believe that papa could be persuaded to leave home," she faltered with evident nervousness and embarrassment.