Her hot hand came out from under the bedclothes, and clutched his very tight.  Her flush had deepened, and her eyes seemed to him to glitter.

“Oh, Daddy!  You do look tired!  Haven’t you been to bed?  Poor Daddy!”

That hot clutch, and the words:  “Poor Daddy!” brought tears into his eyes.  They rolled slowly down to his beard, and he covered his face with the other hand.  Her grip tightened convulsively; suddenly she dragged it to her lips, kissed it, and let it drop.

“Don’t!” she said, and turned away her face.

Pierson effaced his emotion, and said quite calmly: 

“Shall you wish to be at home, my dear, or to go elsewhere?”

Noel had begun to toss her head on her pillow, like a feverish child whose hair gets in its eyes and mouth.

“Oh!  I don’t know; what does it matter?”

“Kestrel; would you like to go there?  Your aunt—­I could write to her.”  Noel stared at him a moment; a struggle seemed going on within her.

“Yes,” she said, “I would.  Only, not Uncle Bob.”

“Perhaps your uncle would come up here, and keep me company.”

She turned her face away, and that tossing movement of the limbs beneath the clothes began again.  “I don’t care,” she said; “anywhere—­it doesn’t matter.”

Pierson put his chilly hand on her forehead.  “Gently!” he said, and knelt down by the bed.  “Merciful Father,” he murmured, “give us strength to bear this dreadful trial.  Keep my beloved child safe, and bring her peace; and give me to understand how I have done wrong, how I have failed towards Thee, and her.  In all things chasten and strengthen her, my child, and me.”

His thoughts moved on in the confused, inarticulate suspense of prayer, till he heard her say:  “You haven’t failed; why do you talk of failing—­it isn’t true; and don’t pray for me, Daddy.”

Pierson raised himself, and moved back from the bed.  Her words confounded him, yet he was afraid to answer.  She pushed her head deep into the pillow, and lay looking up at the ceiling.

“I shall have a son; Cyril won’t quite have died.  And I don’t want to be forgiven.”

He dimly perceived what long dumb processes of thought and feeling had gone on in her to produce this hardened state of mind, which to him seemed almost blasphemous.  And in the very midst of this turmoil in his heart, he could not help thinking how lovely her face looked, lying back so that the curve of her throat was bared, with the short tendrils of hair coiling about it.  That flung-back head, moving restlessly from side to side in the heat of the soft pillow, had such a passion of protesting life in it!  And he kept silence.

“I want you to know it was all me.  But I can’t pretend.  Of course I’ll try and not let it hurt you more than I possibly can.  I’m sorry for you, poor Daddy; oh!  I’m sorry for you!” With a movement incredibly lithe and swift, she turned and pressed her face down in the pillow, so that all he could see was her tumbled hair and the bedclothes trembling above her shoulders.  He tried to stroke that hair, but she shook her head free, and he stole out.