“I don’t really want to go at once, Daddy,” I told him.  “It will take a few days to get used to the idea, and to get everything ready.  And Dr. Grant says that very soon you will be able to walk without a cane.  Do let us put it off for another week.”

Daddy smiled vaguely, and finally nodded his consent.  He is always so good about trying to please me.  So I went and got my knitting and sat down at the foot of the big chair.

“I’m afraid I’ll never finish it before we leave,” I said, “and I doubt whether I will ever quite solve the mystery of turning heels.”

“That’s too bad,” said Daddy.  “I expected to wear those things in Virginia this fall, after quail, or on the Chesapeake when the canvas-backs are flying.”

“I am afraid you will have to buy some, Daddy,” I answered.

So I sat beside him, at his feet, and I think my mood had changed a little.  Perhaps it was fatigue, which I didn’t really feel.  I suppose that people can have things the matter with them without knowing anything about it.  Daddy’s dear old hand rested for a moment on my head, and I had to stop knitting.  I don’t think I ever felt so queerly before, and I had to look over Sweetapple Cove and follow the flight of the gulls, until the shadows grew quite long and the clouds became tinted with rose, and Daddy asked me to get him a cigar, and I was glad he interrupted my silly thoughts.  I must have been really very tired.

* * * * *

I could only write a little while, last night.  We had some caribou steak which Daddy became quite enthusiastic over, but I didn’t feel hungry, and I went to bed early, but somehow I slept poorly.  It is funny that one can be tired for several days at a time.  And to-day, Aunt Jennie, some queer things have happened, and the life that has so often felt like dreams has become very serious, and I have seen some of the inner working of events such as make one feel that existence has cruel sides to it.

All this morning I dawdled about the house.  I had expected Dr. Grant to call and see Daddy, but he had been sent for, a short distance away, in the boat.

Rather late this afternoon he returned, and I strolled over towards the cove when I saw the tiny schooner come in.  It is a poor enough little ship, but it is wonderful to think how it bears with it such comfort and help to so many suffering people.

I was within a few yards of him, and he was lifting his cap when a fisherman rushed up to him.

“Ye’re wanted ter Atkins’,” said the man.  “They is a child there as is awful sick.  They brung ‘un over from Edward’s Bay, this mornin’, an’ th’ mother she be prayin’ fer ye to come.”

“All right,” he answered.  “Sammy, bring my bag up with you and I’ll hurry up at once.”

He only smiled at me, in his pleasant way, for he rushed by me, running up the rough path in great strides, and of course I could only go back to our house, where I sat with Daddy on the porch.