“To sit with my father for a few minutes.”
“You needn’t bother to leave the shop for that. I dare say he’s asleep.”
“I won’t stay long,” said Margaret. “Call me, please, if any one comes in.”
She escaped up the staircase, which stood in the nook between the shop and the parlour. Thomas Rymer lay back in the easy-chair by his bit of bedroom fire. He looked as ill as a man could look, his face thin and sallow, the fine nose pinched, the mild brown eyes mournful.
“Papa, I did not know you were getting up,” said Margaret, in a soft low tone.
“Didn’t you hear me, child?” was his reply, for the room was over the shop. “I have been long enough about it.”
“I thought it was my mother moving about.”
“She has not been here all the afternoon. What is she doing?”
“I think she is writing a letter.”