I really could not bear it. I went up to him. I said: “Papa, have you forgotten Eunice?”
My name seemed (if one may say such a thing) to bring him to himself again. He sat upon the sofa—and laughed as he answered me.
“My dear child, what delusion has got into that pretty little head of yours? Fancy her thinking that I had forgotten my own daughter! I was lost in thought, Eunice. For the moment, I was what they call an absent man. Did I ever tell you the story of the absent man? He went to call upon some acquaintance of his; and when the servant said, ‘What name, sir?’ He couldn’t answer. He was obliged to confess that he had forgotten his own name. The servant said, ‘That’s very strange.’ The absent man at once recovered himself. ‘That’s it!’ he said: ‘my name is Strange.’ Droll, isn’t it? If I had been calling on a friend to-day, I daresay I might have forgotten my name, too. Much to think of, Eunice—too much to think of.”
Leaving the sofa with a sigh, as if he was tired of it, he began walking up and down. He seemed to be still in good spirits. “Well, my dear,” he said, “what can I do for you?”
“I came here, papa to see if there was anything I could do for You.”
He looked at some sheets of paper, strung together, and laid on the table. They were covered with writing (from his dictation) in my sister’s hand. “I ought to get on with my work,” he said. “Where is Helena?”
I told him that she had gone out, and begged leave to try what I could do to supply her place.
The request seemed to please him; but he wanted time to think. I waited; noticing that his face grew gradually worried and anxious. There came a vacant look into his eyes which it grieved me to see; he appeared to have quite lost himself again. “Read the last page,” he said, pointing to the manuscript on the table; “I don’t remember where I left off.”
I turned to the last page. As well as I could tell, it related to some publication, which he was recommending to religious persons of our way of thinking.
Before I had read half-way through it, he began to dictate, speaking so rapidly that my pen was not always able to follow him. My handwriting is as bad as bad can be when I am hurried. To make matters worse still, I was confused. What he was now saying seemed to have nothing to do with what I had been reading.