He could not believe Helen dead, but knelt by her side and coaxed her to
wake, rubbing her fair, slender hands between his leathery palms and
calling her by every pet name of her childhood.
"It's on'y your ol' Dad, Sis," he crooned. "Jes' come to fetch ye t' yer
Ma; that's all. I know yer tired--plum tired out; but Ma 'n' me'll take
care on ye." It was pitiful to hear him.
He desisted at last and looked back at us with a mien of anger.
"Do suthin', some o' ye," he snarled, "'stid o' standin' round like gumps!
Speak to me, Poppet; tell yer ol' Pap w'at ails ye. Fetch some hot water,
you gals! Ain't ye got no sense? Rub her feet; an' her hands. Speak to me,
Sissy--why don't ye?"
As the truth slowly won over him, he straightened himself, one hand still
clasping Helen's cold one.
"It's sudden; sudden," he said. "Doctor, w'at ailed my little Nelly?"
Still numbly inquisitive, I waited. The old man couldn't see the truth,
the horrible truth. What would the doctor say?
It was Cadge's voice that broke the silence; gentle, assured, yet with a
note almost of defiance.
"We think--in fact, Helen overstudied," she said.
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