"Don't go, dear," she begged. "How is Dad?"
"Just about the same." Mrs. Whitney carried a chair to the bedside. "It is too bad to have roused you."
"I wasn't asleep—only thinking"—drearily—"I am glad you came in. Does
Dr. McLane hold out any hope?"
"Yes," and Mrs. Whitney's care-worn face brightened. "Is it not good news?"
"The very best," Kathleen smiled through her tears. "You must be worn out," and she stroked the hand on the bed with loving fingers. "You should take some rest."
"I am not tired," protested Mrs. Whitney. "The nurse has just come in from her afternoon constitutional, and I felt that I could leave Winslow for a little time. Tell me, dear," sinking her voice. "Can you let me have a hundred dollars?"
"I would gladly, mother, but I don't believe I have half that amount left. You are welcome to that, though; my purse is in my desk."
"Thank you, dear, I'll get it later," but the troubled shadow did not lift from Mrs. Whitney's pretty face. "Both Vincent and Henry have asked me for their wages; I have given Henry part …"
"Give him the whole, only get rid of him," burst out Kathleen. "I cannot bear the man."
"Why, Kathleen! Has he been disrespectful?"