Chapter Twenty Three.
Mr James Auberly.
With a very stiff cravat, and a dreadfully stiff back, and a painfully stiff aspect, Mr James Auberly sat by the side of a couch and nursed his sick child.
Stiff and starched and stern though he was, Mr Auberly, had a soft point in his nature, and this point had been reached at last, for through all the stiffness and starch there shone on his countenance an expression of deep anxiety as he gazed at Loo’s emaciated form.
Mr Auberly performed the duties of a nurse awkwardly enough, not being accustomed to such work, but he did them with care and with an evident effort to please, which made a deep impression on the child’s heart.
“Dear papa,” she said, after he had given her a drink and arranged her coverings. “I want you to do me a favour.” She said this timidly, for she knew from past experience that her father was not fond of granting favours, but since her illness he had been so kind to her that she felt emboldened to make her request.
“I will do it, dear,” said the stiff man, bending, morally as well as physically, as he had never bent before—for the prospect of Loo’s death had been presented to him by the physicians. “I will do it, dear, if I can, and if the request be reasonable.”
“Oh, then, do forgive Fred, and let him be an artist!” cried Loo, eagerly stretching out one of her thin hands.
“Hush, darling,” said Mr Auberly, with a look of distress; “you must not excite yourself so. I have forgiven Fred long ago, and he has become an artist in spite of my objections.”