“Papa is never too tired to play with me and Janie,” returned Nora, with a wise nod of her head; “he says it rests him so nicely.”
Somehow Nea went home not quite so happily that day; a dim consciousness that things were different, that it never rested papa to play with her, oppressed her childish brain; and that evening Nea moped in her splendid nursery, and would not be consoled by her toys or even her birds and kitten. Presently it came out with floods of tears that Nea wanted her father—wanted him very badly indeed.
“You must not be naughty, Miss Nea,” returned nurse, severely, for she was rather out of patience with the child’s pettishness; “Mr. Huntingdon has a lot of grand people to dine with him to-night. The carriages will be driving up by and by, and if you are good, you shall go into one of the best bedrooms and look at them.” But Nea was not to be pacified by this; the tears ended in a fit of perverse sulking that lasted until bedtime. Nea would neither look at the carriages nor the people; the ice and fruit that had been provided as a treat were pushed angrily away; Nea would not look at the dainties—she turned her flushed face aside and buried it in her pillow. “I want papa,” she sobbed, as nurse pulled down the blind and left her.
That night, as Mr. Huntingdon crossed the corridor that led to his bedroom, he was startled by seeing what looked like a mass of blue and white draperies flung across his door, but as he lowered his candlestick he saw it was Nea lying fast asleep, with her head pillowed on her arms, and her dark hair half hiding her face.
“Good heavens! what can nurse be about!” he exclaimed in a shocked voice, as he lifted the child, and carried her back to her bed. Nea stirred drowsily as he moved her, and said, “Dear papa,” and one warm arm crept about his neck, but she was soon fast asleep again. Somehow that childish caress haunted Mr. Huntingdon, and he thought once or twice how pretty she had looked. Nurse had assured him that the child must have crept out of bed in her sleep, but Mr. Huntingdon did not feel satisfied, and the next morning, as he was eating his breakfast, he sent for Nea.
She came to him willingly enough, and stood beside him.
“What were you doing, my dear, last night?” he asked, kindly, as he kissed her. “Did nurse tell you that I found you lying by my bedroom door, and that I carried you back to bed?”
“Yes, papa; but why did you not wake me? I tried not to go to sleep until you came, but I suppose I could not help it.”
“But what were you doing?” he asked, in a puzzled tone; “don’t you know, Nea, that it was very wrong for a little girl to be out of her bed at that time of night?” But as Mr. Huntingdon spoke he remembered again how sweet the childish face had looked, pillowed on the round dimpled arm.
“I was waiting to see you, papa,” replied Nea with perfect frankness; “you are always too busy or too tired to come and see me, you know, and nurse is so cross, and so is Miss Sanderson; they will never let me come and find you; so when nurse came to take away the lamp I pretended to be asleep, and then I crept out of the bed, and went to your door and tried to keep awake.”