Poor papa!
He sits at the head of the table, but Phil does the carving; and though
very often he does not say a dozen words throughout the entire meal, yet
even our daring Betty is subdued into good behaviour by his presence.
There is no reason for it that we know of,--papa has never forbidden our
talking at table,--but somehow, since dear mamma has gone, we have very
little conversation at dinner; though we make up for it at other meals,
I assure you. I sit in mamma's place now, and this evening, as I looked
carefully at papa across the long table, I could see that he did look
thinner: there was a tired expression on his face, too, that troubled
me. As I passed through the hall, about half an hour later, he stood
there in overcoat and hat, putting on his gloves before starting out for
a meeting of the Archaeological Society; and when I asked, "Papa, are you
feeling well? really quite well?" he put on that bored expression that
always makes me feel miles away from him.
"Well? Oh, yes!" then he added, with more animation, "Nannie, I wish
you would get me that pamphlet that is lying on my desk. I nearly
forgot it."
[Illustration: "ALAN MADE HIS BOW.
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