the neck. It lay in cloudy masses about her temples--wonderful hair,
quite lustreless, so abundant that it seemed almost too much for the
little head that bore it. She did not rise at her father's entrance.
She scarcely raised her eyes.

"So glad you've come, Daddy," she said, in a soft, low voice. "I've
been wanting you. It's nearly bedtime, isn't it?"

He went to her, treading lightly. His thoughts had been all of her for
the past few hours and in consequence he looked at her more critically
than usual. For the first time he was struck by her pallor, her look
of deathly weariness. On the table near her lay a plate of boiled rice
piled high in a snowy pyramid. He saw that it had not been touched.

"Why, child," he said, a sudden new anxiety at his heart "you have had
nothing to eat. You're not ill?"

She roused herself a little, and a very faint colour crept into her
white cheeks. "No, dear, only tired--too tired to be hungry," she told
him. "That rice is for you."

He sat down beside her with a sound that was almost a groan. "You must
eat something, child," he said. "Being penned up here takes away your
appetite. But all the same you must eat."

She sat up slowly, and pushed back the heavy hair from her forehead
with a sigh.

"Very well, Daddy," she said submissively. "But you must have some
too, dear. I couldn't possible eat it all."