“And what is about me?” cried Margaret; “if you think I want Jean and Grace, papa, what will they do but find fault? They are never satisfied with anything we do. They find fault with everybody. They say John is stupid—”
“And so he is, a doited old body—and, my Peggy, sometimes very far from civil to you.”
“Old John, papa? To me? He is as fond of me as if I were his own. When he scolds, I don’t pay any attention, any more than when you scold.”
Sir Ludovic laughed.
“That is a pretty way of telling me how little authority I have,” he said.
“Papa!” cried Margaret, impatiently, “you know very well that is not what I mean. I would not vex you, not for the world—never you—and not even John. I cannot bear him to be called names, and everything found fault with. There’s not this and there’s not that; no drawing-room; and the bedrooms are not big enough, and me not well enough dressed.”
“Perhaps they are right there, my Peggy. I fear you are dressed anyhow, though I see nobody that looks so well.”
“Then why must they come before September?” said Margaret. “Let them come, papa, at their own time.”
He laughed a little, lying there upon the white pillow, with a delicate hue of life in his old cheek, and all the vigor of twenty in his dark eyes. He did not look as if there was anything the matter with him. He only looked comfortable, luxuriously comfortable, that was all. She laughed, too, as she looked at him. “How lazy you are, papa!” she said; “do you think it is right? What would Bell say to me if I did not get up? You look so comfortable—and so happy.”
“Yes, very comfortable,” he said; but the laugh went off his face. “My Peggy,” he went on, with sudden gravity, “don’t ask any questions, but write to your sisters. Say I wish them to come, and to come now. No more, my dear, no more. I am not joking. Say I will look for them as soon as they can get here.”