In a moment John had risen and was kneeling at her bedside. His hand had clasped the little fingers which lay so loosely upon the knitted counterpane. His bearded check was close to the white face on the pillow, barely discernible now in the closely-shaded light of the lamp which burned at the foot of the bed. He was ready with the word of love to quiet her alarms, and with a kiss to soothe her back to sleep, but they were not needed. She merely moved restlessly to and fro on her pillow, and muttered to herself in some dreamful excitement,—
"Look! look out into the street! What dost thou see, father?"
John bent low over the child's face and touched it gently with his lips. He must have kissed her then, or his heart would have broken.
Even in her sleep Violet knew who was bending over her. "Father," she said softly.
"Yes, my heart's love, I am here beside thee."
"Seest thou? is it not lovely?"
"What? what?" he asked with a sob.
"The little hunchback has wings."
After this she gave a long, restful sigh, and turned her head against her father's arm. Nor did the noise in the street disturb her any more, though the cries at times rose almost to shrieks, and though the lamp in her room burned on unextinguished until daylight had taken its place.