"What has happened, father? Are you sick?" inquired Ethel.
"No, dear, nothing has happened. But I feel a little strange."
He spoke with unusual tenderness in his manner, and his voice shook
and had a mournful cadence.
"Supper is all ready and waiting. I've got something nice and hot
for you. A strong cup of tea will do you good," said Ethel, trying
to speak cheerily. She had her father at the table in a few minutes.
His hand trembled so in lifting his cup that he spilled some of the
contents, but she steadied it for him. He had better control of
himself after drinking the tea, and ate a few mouthfuls, but without
apparent relish.
"I've got something to tell you," said Ethel, leaning toward her
father as they still sat at the table. Mr. Ridley saw a new light in
his daughter's face.
"What is it, dear?" he said.
"Mrs. Birtwell was here to-day, and is going--"
The instant change observed in her father's manner arrested the
sentence on Ethel's lips. A dark shadow swept across his face and he
became visibly agitated.
"Going to do what?" he inquired, betraying some anger.
"Going to help me all she can. She was very kind, and wants me to go
and see her to-morrow. I think she's very good, father."
Mr. Ridley dropped his eyes from the flushed, excited face of his
child. The frown left his brow. He seemed to lose himself in
thought. Leaning forward upon the table, he laid his face down upon
his folded arms, hiding it from view.
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