She smiled.
'Why, it's lovely!'
Then her lips parted eagerly. She would have liked to go on talking, to make acquaintance. But she refrained. This man—this strange new father—was 'sick'—and must be kept quiet.
'Will you help me up to bed?' he murmured—as she was just going away.
She obeyed, and he leant on her shoulder as they mounted the steep cottage stair. Her physical strength astonished him—the amount of support that this child of seventeen was able to give him.
She led him into his room, where she had already brought his bag, and unpacked his things.
'Is it all right, father? Do you want anything else? Shall I send mother?'
'No, no,' he said, hastily—'I'm all right. Tell them I'm all right; I only want to go to sleep.'
She turned at the door, and looked at him wistfully.
'I did make that mattress over—part of it. But it's a real bad one.'