"Joe!" The thin white hand of Mrs. Morgan clasps the arm of her husband, who has arisen up suddenly, and now stands by the partly opened door. "Don't go out to-night, Joe. Please, don't go out."
"Father!" A feeble voice calls from the corner of an old settee, where little Mary lies with her head bandaged.
"Well, I won't then!" is replied—not angrily, nor even fretfully—but in a kind voice.
"Come and sit by me, father." How tenderly, yet how full of concern is that low, sweet voice. "Come, won't you?"
"Yes, dear."
"Now hold my hand, father."
Joe takes the hand of little Mary, that instantly tightens upon his.
"You won't go away and leave me to-night, will you, father? Say you won't."
"How very hot your hand is, dear. Does your head ache?"
"A little; but it will soon feel better."