Mary could only fondle and smile it off, and put them in mind that
they belonged to their brother and sister; but the answer was, 'Ave
is not so nice as you. Oh, do let us--'

'But I can't, my dears. I am Dr. May's child, you know. What could
I say to him?'

'Oh! but Dr. May wouldn't mind! I know he wouldn't mind! Mamma says
there was never any one so fond of little children, and he is such a
dear good old gentleman.'

Mary had not recognized him as an old gentleman at fifty-eight, and
did not like it at all. She argued on the impracticability of taking
them from their natural protectors, and again tried to lead them
upwards, finally betaking herself to the repetition of hymns, which
put them to sleep. She had spent some time in sitting between them
in the summer darkness, when there was a low tap, and opening the
door, she saw her father. Indicating that they slept, she followed
him out, and a whispered conference took place as he stood below her
on the stairs, their heads on a level.

'Tired, Mary? I have only just got rid of old Axworthy.'

'The nurse said you were busy with papers in Henry's room.'

'Ay--the Will. Henry behaves very well; and is full of right
feeling, poor fellow!'

'What becomes of those dear little girls? They want to make
themselves a present to me, and say they know you would like it.'