"I--I--mean--were you going to burn--your book?" I remembered in time
that he did not know we called it the Fetich. "Oh, papa," I pleaded,
"_why_ are you doing this? Your wonderful book, that mamma was so
proud of!"
Papa got up and sat in his chair, and the sadness of his face made me
think of Fee's that awful night; the tears came rushing to my eyes,
and I knelt down and took his hand in my two and held it fast. He
let me keep it, and peered earnestly at me for a few minutes in his
near-sighted way. "It might as well be destroyed; I shall never finish
it--_now_" he said presently, in a low voice, as if he were speaking to
himself, and looking beyond me at the Fetich in the grate. "She is no
longer here to praise and encourage--my lifelong work,--a failure!"
Then, all at once, a daring idea came to me; and, without giving my
courage time to cool, I said quickly: "Papa! dear, dear papa,"--how my
voice shook!--"_please_ let me help you with your work of an afternoon,
something as mamma used to do!" I thought I saw a refusal in his face,
and went on hastily: "I know quite a good deal of Latin and Greek, and I
write a plain hand; I could copy for you, anyway, and I would be _very_
careful.
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