"Never mind, Emmie; you must not fret; God will take care of me."
"Yes, I know, but I cannot help fretting. You look so sad and altered somehow, and all the light has gone out of your dear beautiful eyes; you are so good to me, and you smile and try to be cheerful, but I know—I know all about it, Queen."
"You know what, my precious?"
"Why, I know how lonely you are, and how you miss them all. When I go away," rather timidly, "won't Mr. Garth come and take care of you?"
"Emmie, my darling, what has put such a notion into your head?"
"Isn't it true then?" half crying. "I thought you were fond of him, and liked him better than any one else. Wasn't he the prince in your stories? he was always dark-haired, and tall, and strong, and that made me think of Mr. Garth."
In the dim light a hot flush passed over Queenie's wan face; Emmie softly stroked it with her trembling fingers.
"Ah, you will not answer; but I know all about it. I am only a child, but I love Mr. Garth dearly, dearly. Why doesn't he come and see us, Queen? haven't you told him I am ill?"
"Yes; he knows it," almost inaudibly.
"Then why does he not come?" she persisted. "If I were not tired I would write to him myself; do you think I could?"