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CHAPTER VII.
The last rays of a June sun were streaming into Clara’s chamber through the open window at which she sat.
“There goes father into his office!” she exclaimed. “He is alone. Now or never!” and snatching her sun-bonnet, she ran quickly down the stairs and across the garden to the little white vine-covered office that stood at its foot. A moment’s hesitation, as she laid her hand on the latch, and then, with a sudden air of resolution, she opened the door and went in. Her father, who sat at the window, reading, glanced at her as she entered, nodded slightly, and went on with his book.
Clara walked across the floor to the library, and searched it diligently. Yet her father did not ask her what she wanted. She rattled gently the bones of a skeleton that hung in the corner. Still he did not look up. She played a tattoo on the skull of a Hottentot. The imperturbable doctor moved not. So she went up to him and laid her hand on the back of his chair, saying,
“Have you a few minutes for me, father?”
“Oh yes, my dear. Can you wait till I finish this article?” So she leaned upon his chair, gazing out of the window, and wishing herself back in her room.
“Well, Clara, I am ready for you,” said her father at last, closing his book.
But she seemed to have nothing ready to say, and began to pull to pieces a stray branch of woodbine that looked in at the window.
“Why what is it, my child—do you want a new frock, or what?”