“‘Μόχθον οὕνεκα τὸν κατʼ ἦμαρ
Ἐκτολυπέσας οἴκαδε,
Μισθὸν φερων, ἤνυσας.’
Oh, I forgot; ah yes, to be sure. A word, I mean, which expresses in a figurative and yet homely manner——”
“Cradock, papa! Oh, father, have you been with him in London? Oh, how Aunt Doxy has cheated me! You know very well, my own father, that you cannot tell me a story. Did you go to London because poor Cradock was very, very ill?”
“Yes,” said her father, those soft bright eyes beamed into his so appealingly; “my own child, your Cradock is very ill indeed.”
“Not dead, father? Oh, not dead?”
“No, my child; nor in any great danger, I sincerely believe, just at present.”
“Then eat your supper, pa, while it is hot. I am so glad you have seen him. I am quite content with that.”
She believed, or she would not have said it. And yet how far from the truth it was!
“You shall tell me all after supper, my father. Thank God for His mercies to me. I am never in a hurry, dear.”
Yet Amy, in dishing up the mackerel, had the greatest difficulty (for her breath came short, and her breast heaved fast) in holding back the tide of hysterics, which would have spoiled her fatherʼs supper.