Her face was pale. Her eyes were dull, and the lids hung droopingly, weighed down by twenty-four hours of wakefulness by the bedside of her sick teacher. The faint blue crescents beneath--those strange shadows of the grave, which sometimes seem the deepest when the eyes above are giving the brightest light--imparted a frail, delicate beauty to her countenance. They were the last master-touches of Nature in working out that portraiture of weaned and sleepy loveliness. As she put her foot in the room, Mr. Minford and his guest telegraphed a truce with their eyes, and assumed a cheerful look. Little Pet timidly ran to her father, and kissed him, and then shook hands with Marcus. He observed a shrinking in her touch. She averted her eyes. "Your clothes are damp, and your feet wet, my darling," said the father, "Are they?" answered Pet, looking down at her saturated garments and glistening shoes. "I had not noticed them. Oh! I am so happy that she is well now. The doctor called at the house just before I left, and said she was out of all danger. He ordered me home." "Very sensible of the doctor. Another hour of this watching might have killed my poor child." "So I took a last look at my dear teacher--who was asleep--and kissed her, and came right away through the rain." "It was foolish to do that without an umbrella and overshoes, my child. But, as you were always forgetful of yourself, your father will not be forgetful of you, at any rate." The inventor glanced significantly at Marcus. That glance, so full of distrust, entered his soul. He longed to say something--if only a word of common civility--to the young girl; but he felt that there was now an impassable barrier between them. "But what is the matter, Pet?" exclaimed the father. She had dropped into a chair, and her head fell on one side. He sprang to catch her. So did Marcus. But the inventor reached her first, and seized her in his arms, directing another of his speaking looks at Marcus. Pet roused herself at the touch of her father's hands, sat erect, and opened her large blue eyes. "I am so sleepy," she said. "Of course you are, my blessed; and to bed you must go at once. That is my prescription. But, first--always first--a cup of tea." The inventor darted to the stove, snatched up the teapot, poured out a cup of the universal restorer, scalding his forefinger in the hurry, milked and sugared it just right, and bore it to his daughter, who was nodding again. She drank it dutifully, like medicine. Children do not comprehend tea. We have to grow up to it. It is the appointed balm of fatigued and sorrowing middle age. In its function of medicine, the strong draught revived her, giving a twist to her pretty features, and sending a lively shudder through her slender frame. Pet rose from her seat quite briskly. "Now to bed. To bed at once. No delay. And mind you put on all the blankets, and your heavy shawl a-top of them." "Yes, father."