I started at this.
“Oh, papa,” I said, “is it about the Whytes?—is it all right?”
“I think so. I quite believe so,” he replied. “I had a most cheerful note from Captain Whyte this morning written from his aunt’s house. We were together in London yesterday. He came to my hotel with Mary, on his way to Mrs Fetherston’s, little thinking of your stealing a march on us! Indeed, it was a good deal my idea—the taking Mary to show that she was herself, and not—”
“Not me,” I interrupted. “Oh, papa, I have been so sorry, so ashamed.”
“I know you have,” said papa, gravely. “I would have spared it you if I could; but yet, Connie—”
“I deserved it,” I said, “and I wouldn’t have minded its being twice as bad as it was yesterday, if it was to put things right. And the old lady was really kind, papa, at the end.”
“Captain Whyte told me all,” he said. “I don’t think any of them dared to hope in the least that things would turn out so well. They are all going up to town to-morrow—all, that is to say, except the three little fellows. Mrs Fetherston is not one to do things by halves, I fancy. The saddest part of the whole is poor Hugo Whyte’s precarious state.”
“Have you seen him?” mamma asked.
“Yes,” papa replied. “I called on him the day I went up to speak about Captain Whyte’s idea of bringing Mary. He is very, very ill. I don’t think they quite realise how ill he is. Perhaps, however, it is just as well. He may have a little breathing-time now he is happier and cheered by having them all about him; he may live a few months in comparative comfort. That is the best I can hope for.”
“It is a comfort to think that his last days will be cheered and happy,” said mamma, softly.