BUT my first thought in the morning was of papa, and I wondered what I ought to do for him; how I longed for dear mamma! If even Max were home!—for he was a great favourite with papa, and might be able to persuade him to see Dr. Archard. Though papa is so quiet and gentle, he is really a very difficult person to get to do things that he doesn't want to; and he never wants to have a physician for himself. I was feeling very blue, when something Betty said reminded me of my violin lessons, and then the very thought made me more cheerful.

Betty and I room together, and Nora and Kathie have the next apartment; and what did Nora and Betty do but put their heads together while we were dressing to think of a place in the house where I might go to practise every afternoon without disturbing papa. One or the other of the girls practises every afternoon, and the combination of violin squeaks and piano exercises would, we knew, disturb papa very much. Miss Marston, we were sure, would not permit them to neglect their music,—Nora is a fine musician, and Betty would be if she'd only put the same interest into that that she does into some other things, such as Indian clubs, and sliding down banisters, and playing practical jokes,—and we couldn't plan where my violin hour could best come in, when Nora thought of the old store-room at the top of the house. That was a good idea, because, by closing the door and hanging a thick quilt over it, not much of my scraping would escape to mingle with the piano scale-running, and so annoy papa. The girls' arranging for me in this way quite cheered me up,—the question of practising having troubled me a good deal, for I knew a noise of that kind would seriously interfere with papa's writing, and delay still longer the completion of the Fetich.

Years and years ago, before Phil was born,—indeed, before mamma and papa were ever married,—papa began to write a book, and it is not yet finished, though there are pages and pages of it. Of course it is very deep and very clever, for papa is a great scholar. Max Derwent says that if papa would only finish the book he thinks he knows of a publisher who would accept it at once; and that would be a great help to us, for papa has lost a lot of money this year, and we have to be very economical. That is the reason Fee can't go to college as well as Phil; papa explained this to the boys that day in the study, after Jack had been put out. Dear Jack! he is such a gentle, old-fashioned little fellow, it really seems as if he ought to have been the girl, and Betty the boy.

But, for all that Max said, papa can't seem to get to the end of his work; he writes and re-writes, and keeps making changes all the time. Sometimes I have wondered if he has worked over it so long that he hates to part with it. The title of this great piece of work is "The History of Some Ancient Peoples," or something very like that,—it's about the Egyptians and Phoenicians and Chaldeans; but among ourselves we children call it the Fetich. Long ago Fee gave it that name, because he says it rules the house, and everything and everybody has to give way to it; and he isn't very far wrong, I'm sorry to say. Ever since we older ones can remember, the Fetich has engrossed papa's entire attention, and kept him so occupied that he has had no time for anything else,—not even for his children. In our own home we have to go quietly and soberly about as if in a stranger's house,—to creep softly through the halls and steal up the back stairs, and to subdue our voices when the natural childish impulse is to run gaily and speak out merrily. It has kept our father apart from us and made him almost a stranger to his children; and, as we look back, some of us grudge the hours of dear mamma's time that were spent each day in the study,—away from us,—reading and copying off the Fetich, and helping and encouraging papa.

Dear, blessed mother! what a brave, loving spirit hers was! Even to the last, when she was almost too weak to speak, she would have papa carry her to the study, and, lying there in the invalid-chair, she'd smile at him as he kept looking up at her from his writing. The very last talk we had together,—after she had been taken back to her room,—when we had spoken about the children and she had told me different little points about their dispositions, and some ways in which I might be able to help them after she had gone, she said very earnestly, "And always be very good to your father, Nannie; he will be in sore need of comfort, for he will miss me more than any one else."

"Oh, mamma, mamma!" I cried, choking, "no one could miss you more than we shall!"

Mamma stroked my hand softly as it lay on the bed beside her. "Dear," she said presently, "I know my boys and girls will never forget me, not even the very youngest, for they will hear of me from you older ones. Oh, if it had been my Father's will, how gladly would I have remained with you all! But you are all young; life and hope are strong within you, and you love one another. He—your father—is so different; he will grieve—alone—and grow farther and farther from human love and sympathy. Nannie, dear little daughter, remember how very, very happy he has made me all these years, and oh, be good to him, and very patient and loving when I am gone!"

Her very last look was given to papa; her last word was "Jack!"

For a good while I did try to do things for him, and to let him see that I loved him; but I had a feeling all the time—as in the hall that night—that he didn't want me near him, and would rather not have me in the study: so gradually I gave up going there, except for a few minutes each morning to ask if he needed anything. But this morning dear mamma's words came back to me, and I felt very guilty as I ran up to the study after breakfast; I had tried faithfully to look after the brothers and sisters, but I had neglected papa; and I am afraid, in the lowness of my spirits, that I gave a very faint knock on the door. After waiting a minute or two, I opened the door, as no answer came, and stepped into the study.

Papa's breakfast, which had been sent up more than half an hour before, lay cold and untasted on his desk, and papa himself knelt on the hearth; there was no fire, and in the empty grate, laid criss-cross, were pages and pages of closely written manuscript. On the chair beside him, and on the floor, were more pages of manuscript in bundles. In my father's hand was a match, which he had just drawn and was about to apply to the papers.

My heart gave a tremendous throb that seemed to send it right into my throat, and I sprang forward, crying out, "Oh, papa! papa! surely you are not going to burn the Fetich!"

The match fell from papa's fingers, and he looked up at me with an expression that was half bewilderment, half relief. "Eh! burn what?" he said.

"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. Will you? Ah, please! I know she would like me to do it. And perhaps"—the words faltered—"perhaps she can see and hear us now; and if she can, I know she will be glad to have me do this for you."

Papa gave an eager, startled glance around the room; then he drooped his head, and covered his face with the hand I wasn't holding, and for several minutes we didn't speak. Presently he said slowly,—and the unsteadiness of his voice told me more than his words did,—"I suppose I could let you try; for I do need—some one. You might be useful to me, my dear, if you could come regularly to help me—every day; on that condition I will accept your offer, and thank you for it—"

"I can—I will; indeed I will!" I broke in.

A look of relief came over papa's face, a faint little smile stirred his lips, and he gently patted my shoulder. "You are like your mother," he said; and turning up my chin he kissed me,—a light little kiss that just brushed my face, but I knew what it meant from him.

Then, as he stooped over and began to gather up the Fetich, he added, in his usual voice: "These are some chapters that I've written lately, and become somewhat discouraged over. Help me put them back in their place on my desk, Nannie; and be careful to keep every page in its regular order." I did so, and listened attentively while he explained, with great care and insistence, what I should have to do, and how much time he would require me to spend in the study.

It was not until I had left him, and was on my way to the schoolroom, that I remembered that the hours I had promised papa were those I had set aside for my violin lessons and practice. And then—I am sorry and ashamed, but I couldn't help it—I ran swiftly away and hid in a corner by myself, and cried bitterly. It wasn't that I wished I hadn't made papa that offer, for I would have done it over again, even while I felt so badly; but, oh, how hard it was to give up my dear music! And I really didn't know what to do about my teacher and aunt Lindsay.

But it all came right after a while; dear old Felix came to the rescue, as he generally does, and offered to go to the conservatory and take the lessons for me, and then give them to me in the evenings in the old store-room,—that is, if aunt Lindsay didn't object. Of course I was thankful; for while Fee does not love violin music as I do, he is very thorough, and would, I know, do his best for me. So I wrote and explained to aunt Lindsay, and she did not object in the least; in fact, her letter was the nicest she has written us yet. And this is the way that things stand at present: Papa is still writing the Fetich, and I am helping him; evenings, Fee and I have great times in the store-room, with the door closed and heavily muffled, giving and receiving music lessons, and practising with our squeaky violins,—we really do have lots of fun!

And now to-day comes the good news from Max that he will soon be home; he writes that he has a "surprise" for us, and of course we are all very curious. Dear old fellow! It will be such a comfort to have him among us again!

V.