“I am very tired, papa.”
“And where is Isabel?”
“Dressing to go out.”
“And you,” said Charles, approaching her, and standing beside her sofa with looks of devotion, “are you going?”
“No, I am tired.”
“That expedition to Woolwich was too much for you,” observed her father.
“I believe it was,” said she, with tears, half sorrow, half anger, starting to her eyes.
“Ah, we will have no more such freaks, little Dora,” said Mr. Barham, “will we, Mr. Huyton? we must take more care of you, my child, in future.”
The unusual kindness of her father’s tone went to Dora’s heart. Would he only have been always so, she would have been saved from how much unhappiness; she felt choking, and could make no answer, only laying down her burning cheek upon the pillow.
Mr. Huyton drew a chair close beside the end of the sofa, and leaning over toward her, was in the act of whispering some gentle sentiment in her ear, when Isabel entered.