I was on his lap, in the big still living room.
"Father, father," I said, and held his dear head close against my breast. They can't take him from me! They can't!
"Hush!" he said. "We have had many years of the most beautiful, close companionship together, my daughter. You have given me more than you know. And for a long time I have known...."
"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, fighting back the tears.
"I talked it over," he said, "with Dr. Denton, and we decided that it was not wise--as your condition stood then."
"If only," said Father, very low, "if only I could leave you guarded, protected. You know so little of life.... I am," he whispered to himself, "responsible to her mother...."
"There, there," he said, "I hear Peter calling you outside. Run along, dearest. And let me see you smile before you go. It may be that we will have a long time yet together. Kiss me, Mavis, and smile."
Diary, I am so terribly frightened. So alone.
We are getting ready for Christmas. The Green Hill people have sent me, with their love, a beautiful, courageous tree. And everyone has offered to come and trim it. But we must be very quiet on this, my first real Christmas for many years. For Father is failing steadily. He does not complain, but he spends a great deal of the day in bed; and he is so white, so worn, that my heart stands still to look at him. If only I could have stayed all my life in my little rose-grey room, helpless and cared for, if by some strange twist of Fate my Father could have been spared this wasting illness.
I hate my feet; so eager to run; I hate my new sense of well-being and vitality. I hate the faint pink in my cheeks, and all my untired strength.
It is snowing today. White and soft and thick snow lies over my garden. Like a.... No, I can't write it....
Christmas is over and done with. I had so many lovely gifts, more than ever this year, it seems. I have put them away--the books from Mr. Denton, the little gold watch from Father, even Peter's funny little hand-painted card. And all the others. I can't seem to be grateful for anything. Wonderful roses reached me from the city, Christmas morning. There is no card. But I know who sent them. Why doesn't he write? He would help, a little, I think. But I can't write to him. Not now.