But Nurse had said, when she complained to her, that the girls
would call her "Prudy" for short, and "Jerrie" was certainly a prettier
name than that.
"Jerrie," her father called.
The sound was so weak and broken by a cough that she did not turn her
head or answer until he had called more than twice. But she flew to him
when she was sure that he had called her, and kissed his flabby cheek and
smoothed back the thin locks of white hair. His black eyes were burning
like two fires beneath his white brows, his lips were ashy, and his
breath hot and hurried. Two letters were trembling in his hand, two open
letters, and one of them was in several fluttering sheets; this
handwriting was a lady's, Jeroma recognized that, although she could not
read even her own name in script.
"O, papa, those are the letters that made you sick! I'll throw them away
to the lions," she cried, trying to snatch them. But he kept them in his
fingers and tried to speak.
"I'll be rested in a moment, eat those strawberries--and then I
have--something to talk to you about."
She surveyed the table critically, bread and fruit and milk; there was
nothing beside.
"I've had my breakfast! O, papa, I've forgotten your flowers! Mrs. Heath
said you might have them every morning."
"Run and get them then, and never wait for me to call you--it tires me
too much."
"Poor papa! And I can howl almost as loud as the lions themselves."
"Don't howl at me then, for I might want to roll off into the sea," he
said, smiling as she danced away.
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