“He’s more ill than he will say, I know,” she moaned.  “Father never tells the worst.  O father!  Father! and I am not even at home to be with him.  If I could see him I should know; but here I am in prison, and—­ and I can’t know what is happening at home!” and Kitty collapsed on her bed, sobbing pitifully.

“Katherine!  Katherine! what is the matter, child?” Miss Pidsley, hearing sounds of grief, opened the door and looked in, then she walked in and closed it behind her.

“I have had such dreadful news,” moaned Kitty.  “Father is very ill—­ I know he is worse than he says—­and I am not there, and—­and I am here a prisoner.  Read what he says, Miss Pidsley.”

Miss Pidsley laid her strong hand on Kitty’s trembling arm.  “Dear, you must know that if your father wanted you, or thought it necessary that you should be home, that he would send for you, and you could go at once, so do not feel yourself a prisoner.”  Then she read the letter slowly and carefully through.

“Isn’t it dreadful?” sighed Kitty, looking up at her as she laid the letter down.

“It is a trouble for you certainly, dear,” said Miss Pidsley.  “But I think you have every reason to hope that your father may soon be well and strong again, and in the meantime I see he has given you plenty to do for him.  Don’t let him know that you are not able or willing to do what he asks you to.”

“What has he asked me to do?” cried Kitty, starting up eager to begin then and there.

Miss Pidsley held out the letter, and pointed out one particular paragraph.  “If you want to help me—­and I know you will—­you must be as happy and do as well at school as you possibly can.  That will help me more than anything.”

“But that can’t really help him, and—­and it is so difficult.”  Kitty looked up into Miss Pidsley’s face very dolefully.

“But it does help, dear, more than you can imagine.  Nothing would worry your father more than to feel you were unhappy.  Do try, for his sake.  You can’t refuse his request, can you?”

“No,” said Kitty mournfully, “I can’t.  I—­I will try, but—­it is very hard to begin at once, isn’t it?  One is frightened and unhappy before one knows one is going to be, and then it is so hard to forget it again and try to feel brave and happy, and all that sort of thing; and oh, it does seem so dreadful that father should be ill, and have to go away from us.  I can hardly believe it.”

“You must try not to think of it in that way, dear, but think that he has been ill for some time without being able to do anything to make himself well again, and that now he is about to be cured, and if he has rest and change and an easy mind every day will see him a little stronger and happier.  He has worked hard and long, and often, probably, when he has been feeling quite unfit; but now he is going to have a real rest, and to enjoy himself.  It is good to think of, isn’t it?”