"Is he very ill—very?" said she; and her fond wistful eyes were fixed on the physician's with all the earnestness of despair.
"Your father is very ill," replied the doctor after a short pause. "He cannot move hence for some days at least. I am going to London—shall I call on your relations, and tell some of them to join you?"
"No, thank you, sir," answered Helen, coloring. "But do not fear; I can nurse papa. I think he has been worse before—that is, he has complained more."
The homœopathist rose and took two strides across the room, then he paused by the bed, and listened to the breathing of the sleeping man.
He stole back to the child, who was still kneeling, took her in his arms and kissed her. "Tamm it," said he angrily, and putting her down, "go to bed now—you are not wanted any more."
"Please, sir," said Helen, "I cannot leave him so. If he wakes he would miss me."
The doctor's hand trembled; he had recourse to his globules. "Anxiety, grief suppressed," muttered he. "Don't you want to cry, my dear? Cry—do!"
"I can't," murmured Helen.
"Pulsatilla!" said the doctor, almost with triumph. "I said so from the first. Open your mouth—here! Good night. My room is opposite—No. 6; call me if he wakes."