Her family failed to understand her. Mademoiselle Durand, also tremulous and in tears, heard and hastened away to her own room. She returned with the little image.
“It is her fancy,” murmured the governess.
Cecilia indicated by a gesture that it was to be placed in her father’s hands. Mr. Denvil held it carefully, while the invalid gazed steadfastly at her saint. They waited for her next words in silence and suspense. The joy of a convalescent is seldom demonstrative. She did not speak again for an hour. Then she exclaimed suddenly, in stronger tones:
“It is Christmas-day and papa has come.”
Henry Denvil bent over and kissed the wasted little face, praying in his heart it might only be spared to him.
Jack looked on, stiff and ill at ease, after the manner of boys in a sick-chamber. He answered his father’s inquiries in constrained and difficult English, with frequent lapses into French. Four years in a Swiss school had wrought wonders for Jack, especially as his mother had left him to take walking tours with his tutors during the summer vacations. A foreign education had been Mrs. Denvil’s idea of preparation for life as an American citizen, especially at Foundryville.
There was another lapse into stillness before Cecilia’s voice became again audible.
“If I had not—met with the accident on the Pincio, would you have come to Rome for Christmas?”
“I fear not, my child.”