“I have brought them, papa,” said Cicely. “But I do so wish you would not read them yet. They look like business letters, and they always tire you so.”
She stooped and kissed him. He had had a good night Mrs. Methvyn had said, but to Cicely’s eyes he looked sadly white and frail this morning; his voice was tremulous, his hand shook as he held it out for the letters.
“Give them to me, my dear child. I shall be more comfortable when I have read them.”
He opened two of them and tossed them aside with indifference. The third was a longer letter. Colonel Methvyn read it through once—twice—then folded it up again and put it back carefully into its envelope with a little sigh. Cicely watched him anxiously.
“Is it all right, papa?” she said. “Nothing to vex you, I mean?”
“Oh! no, it is all right enough,” he answered rather absently. “Cicely,” he went on, after a little pause, “there will probably be a telegram for me some time to-day. Don’t think of keeping it from me, my dear. It would annoy me inexpressibly if you did so. Let it be brought up at once. Tell your mother so.”
“Very well, papa,” replied Cicely. She leant over him and kissed him again, then she went quietly downstairs.
Her mother looked up quickly as she re-entered the room.
“I don’t think there is anything particular in papa’s letters,” said Cicely, in answer to her mother’s unspoken question. “But he says there may be a telegram some time to-day, and he wishes it taken to him at once.”
“I hope it won’t come,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “I don’t feel easy about your father. He is doing far too much. How do you think he is looking this morning, Cicely?”