She stole along on tiptoe, and I after her. The door of the study was ajar. She opened it softly, and, standing in the shadow, I peeped in. He was seated in an easy-chair and had dozed off. His face wore that gentle, languid air of one who has been very ill and is slowly recovering; of one who has looked death in the face and to whom life is still new and uncertain. Ten years seemed to have been added to his life. Whether owing to his illness or to some other cause, I could not tell, but it seemed to me that a certain look of firmness and resolve, that was at times too prominent, had quite disappeared. Instead of his own brown locks he wore a wig. He had suffered very much. The door creaked as Nellie entered, disturbing but not awakening him. He sighed, his lips moved, and I thought he muttered my name.
“Papa!” said Nellie, touching his arm lightly. How matronly the Fairy looked! “Papa!”
“Ah! Yes, my dear. Is that you, my child? Is—is nobody with you?” What a wistful look in the eyes at that last question!
“Do you feel any better, papa? It is time to take your medicine.” How slow the demure minx is about it.
“Is it? I don’t think I will take any now. I want nothing just now, my darling.”
“What—no medicine! Nothing at all, papa?”
“Nothing at all. Is not that train arrived yet?” he asked, looking around anxiously at the clock.
“I—I think so, papa. And it brought such a lot of visitors.”
“Any—any—for us, Nellie?” He coughed, and his voice trembled into a feeble old treble as he asked this question.
“Only one, papa. May he come in?”