There was a nervous anxiety in her manner, and a mute interrogation in her grey eyes.
"I'm afraid he's a little sick to-day," I said gently; "but come in, won't you, and see him?"
"Thank you." Pity, tenderness and love seemed to struggle in her face as she softly brushed past me. With some words of endearment, she fell on her knees beside him, and her small white hand sought his thin gnarled one. As if galvanised into life, the old man turned gratefully to her.
"Maybe he would care for some coffee," I said. "I think I could rustle him some."
She gave me a queer, sad look of thanks.
"If you could," she answered.
When I returned she had the old man propped up with pillows. She took the coffee from me, and held the cup to his lips; but after a few sips he turned away wearily.
"I'm afraid he doesn't care for that," I said.
"No, I'm afraid he won't take it."
She was like an anxious nurse hovering over a patient. She thought a while.