There was no change in her father's position, or in his spectral
look. He had answered her questions (but few in number, for so many
subjects were unapproachable) by monosyllables, and in a weak, high,
childish voice; but he had not lifted his eyes; he could not meet
his daughter's look. And she, when she spoke, or as she moved
about, avoided letting her eyes rest upon him. She wished to be her
usual self; but while everything was done with a consciousness of
purpose, she felt it was impossible.
In this manner things went on for some days. At night he feebly
clambered upstairs to bed; and during those long dark hours Mary
heard those groans of agony which never escaped his lips by day,
when they were compressed in silence over his inward woe.
Many a time she sat up listening, and wondering if it would ease his
miserable heart if she went to him, and told him she knew all, and
loved and pitied him more than words could tell.
By day the monotonous hours wore on in the same heavy, hushed manner
as on that first dreary afternoon.
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