“You had better not repeat that to Mr. Brandon,” said John, “he is rather touchy about his book.  It has been very unfavourably reviewed.”

“But Swan intended a compliment,” answered Johnnie, “and he loves onions.  I often see him at his tea, eating slices of them with the bread and butter.  You are better now, dear father, are you not?”

“Yes, my boy.  What made you think there was anything specially the matter with me?”

“Oh, I knew you must be dreadfully miserable, for you could hardly take any notice even of me.”

A small shrill voice, thin and silvery, was heard across the passage.

“Nancy often talks now,” said Johnnie; “she spoke several times this morning.”

John rose softly and moved towards it.  “And what did the robin say then,” it asked.  Emily’s clear voice answered, “The robin said, ’No, my wings are too short, I cannot fly over the sea, but I can stop here and be very happy all the winter, for I’ve got a warm little scarlet waistcoat.’  Then the nightingale said, ’What does winter mean?  I never heard of such a thing.  Is it nice to eat?”

“That was very silly of the nightingale,” answered the little voice.  The father thought it the sweetest and most consoling sound he had ever heard in his life.  “But tell the story,” it went on peremptorily in spite of its weakness, “and then did the robin tell him about the snow?”

“Oh yes; he said, ’Sometimes such a number of little cold white feathers fall down from the place where the sun and moon live, that they cover up all the nice seeds and berries, so that we can find hardly anything to eat.  But,’ the robin went on, ’we don’t care very much about that.  Do you see that large nest, a very great nest indeed, with a red top to it?’ ‘Yes,’ the nightingale said he did.  ’A nice little girl lives there,’ said the robin.  ’Her name is Nancy.  Whenever the cold feathers come, she gives us such a number of crumbs.’”

“Father, look at me,” said the little creature, catching sight of her father.  “Come and look at me, I’m so grand.”  She turned her small white face on the pillow as he entered, and was all unconscious both how long it was since she had set her eyes on him, and the cause.  Emily had been dressing a number of tiny dolls for her, with gauzy wings, and gay robes; they were pinned about the white curtains of her bed.  “My little fairies,” she said faintly; “tell it, Mrs. Nemily.”

“The fairies are come to see if Nancy wants anything,” said Emily.  “Nancy is the little Queen.  She is very much better this evening, dear John.”  John knelt by the child to bring her small face close to his, and blessed her; he had borne the strain of many miserable hours without a tear, but the sound of this tender little voice completely overpowered him.