The young girl raised her head from the pillows, and shook away the long fair curls from her smooth forehead. Her tears had ceased to flow, and there was a smile on her lip, as she replied, pointing to her hand which he held fast grasped, in his unconscious slumber.
“See, father, I am a prisoner. I fear me I cannot withdraw my hand without arousing him.”
“Do not so, then, Theresa; to arouse him now, ere the effects of the potion have passed away, would be dangerous, might be fatal. Perchance, however, he will release you when he sleeps quite soundly. If he do so, I pray you, come to me. Meantime, I leave you to your own good thoughts, my own little girl.”
And with the words, he leaned across the narrow bed, over the form of the sleeping youth, and kissed her fair white brow.
“Bless thee, my gentle child. May God in his goodness bless and be about thee.”
“Amen! dear father,” said the little girl, as he ended; and in her turn she pressed her soft and balmy lips to his withered cheek.
A tear, rare visitant, rose all unbidden to the parent’s eye as he turned to leave her, but ere he reached the door her low tones arrested him, and he came back to her.
“Will you not put my books within reach of me, dear father?” she said. “I cannot work, since the poor youth has made my left hand his sure captive, but I would not be altogether idle, and I can read while I watch him. Pardon my troubling you, who should wait on you, not be waited on.”
“And do you not wait on me ever, and most neat-handedly, dear child?” returned her father, moving toward a small round table, on which were scattered a few books, and many implements of feminine industry. “Which of these will you have, Theresa?”
“All of them, if you please, dear father. The table is not heavy, for I can carry it about where I will myself, and if you will lift it to me, I can help myself, and cull the gems of each in turn. I am a poor student, I fear, and love better, like a little bee, to flit from flower to flower, drinking from every chalice its particular honey, than to sit down, like the sloth, and surfeit me on one tree, how green soever.”
“There is but little industry, I am afraid, Theresa, if there be little sloth in your mode of reading. Such desultory studies are wont to leave small traces on the memory. I doubt me much if you long keep these gems you speak of, which you cull so lightly.”