When I was left with my favourite Isola, that gentle senior sophist seemed by no means disconsolate at her Papa's departure. She loved him and was proud of him, but there were times, as she told me, when she was quite afraid of him.
"Would you believe it, dear, that I could be afraid of old Pappy?"--his age was about four and forty--"It is very wicked I know, but how am I to help it? Were you like that with your Papa, when he was alive?"
"No, I should think not. But I am not at all sure that he wasn't afraid of me."
"Oh, how nice that must be! But it is my fault, isn't it?"
I could not well have told her, even if I had known it, that the fault in such cases is almost always on the parent's side.
CHAPTER VII.
That same evening, when dear "Idols" was gone, and I felt trebly alone, Mrs. Shelfer came to say that her uncle John was there, and would be glad to see me. Though he had been several times to ask how I was, he had not seen me since the first day of my blindness.
After expressing his joy and surprise at my recovery, he assured me that I must thank neither myself nor the doctor, but my luck in not having touched the liquid until its strength was nearly expended.
"Have you any news for me?" I asked abruptly. As my strength returned, the sense of my wrong grew hotter.
"Yes; and I fear you will think it bad news. You will lose my help for awhile in your pursuit."