She left her chamber early every morning to watch them and
never grew weary of the familiar, strange Bight. Not that this sight had
been so long familiar, for her father was ever seeking new places along
the coast to rest in, or grow strong in. Nurse had told her that morning
that there was not any place for her papa to get well in.
He had breakfasted, as usual, upon the veranda, and, the last time that
she had brought her gaze from the fascinating monsters to look back at
him, he was leaning against the cushions of his rolling chair, with his
eyes fixed upon the sea. He often sat for hours and hours looking out
upon the sea.
Jeroma had played upon the beach every day last winter, growing ruddy and
strong, but the air had revived him only for a little time, he soon sank
back into weakness and apathy. He had dismissed her with a kiss awhile
ago, and had seemed to suffer instead of respond to her caresses.
"Papa gets tired of loving me," she had said to Nurse last night with a
quivering of the lip.
"Papa is very sick," Nurse had answered guardedly, "and he had letters
to-day that were too much for him."
"Then he shouldn't have letters," said the child, decidedly. "I'll tell
him so to-morrow."
As she danced about, her white dress and sunny curls gleaming in and out
among the heliotrope and scarlet geranium that one of the flower-loving
boarders was cultivating, her father called her name; it was a queer
name, and she did not like it. She liked her second name, Prudence,
better.
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