"Oh, daddy, I believe you have had nothing since dinner. You must be frightfully hungry, I know you must, and the dinner was so badly cooked-- oh, poor daddy! Why didn't you come home to tea?" "I had barely finished my round of calls in time to keep an appointment Dr. Gray had made with me. He wanted," he added more slowly, his face growing grave and troubled, "to talk to me about your mother." Faith looked up quickly at him, her large eyes full of anxiety, her heart throbbing heavily. Then there was more trouble in store, more anxiety! She had felt it for days in her inmost heart, but had not had the courage to put her fears into words. "Is mother--worse?" her voice faltered and broke. Mr. Carlyle, gazing, absorbed and troubled, into the fire, did not see her blanched cheeks and the dread that filled her eyes. He had no suspicion of the awful fear which had haunted her every waking moment, and even her dreams, or he would not have kept her in suspense while his thoughts ran on to plans for the future. "No, dear," he said at last, "no dear, she is not worse, but the doctor says it will be a long time before she is well again--well enough to walk about and take up her old life. For a year, poor dear, she must lie on a sofa, and live the life of an invalid. If she does, he says, she will become her old strong self again in a year or two, but if she----" "Oh, but she will, of course she will, that will be easy enough." In the intensity of her relief, Faith spoke so gaily that her father looked up at her in surprise, her tone and words sounded almost heartless. "Easy! It will be a long and trying ordeal for her. Faith--just think of it, a whole year in one room! You don't realise." "Oh yes I do, daddy, but we will manage beautifully. I will look after the house and the children, and--and see that mother isn't worried at all, and she can read and write, and--and oh, father, father, I am so glad--I don't know what to do!" and without any warning Faith broke down and began to sob. "Glad!" For a moment Mr. Carlyle looked at his little daughter as though he feared she must be mad instead of glad. She spoke as though his news had come as a relief. Relief from what? Then quite suddenly the truth broke upon him. "Oh, you poor little woman! What have you been thinking? What have you been fearing, Faith dear--tell me. Did you think----?" Faith nodded. "Yes--yes--I thought," but she could not put her dread into words. "You feared we might be going to lose her altogether. Oh, you poor child. My poor little girl. Why didn't you tell me?" "I couldn't, daddy." Mr. Carlyle drew her to him. "No wonder my news came to you as a relief," he said softly, "instead of as the shock I feared. Why, Faith, how you are trembling. You look ready to faint too. Look here, I believe you are tired and famished. Come and have some supper. What have we got? Something tempting?"