The sailor glanced at Persis, and her gentle eye seemed to ask indulgence for the infirmities of age, the failing memory which could retain no new thing for two minutes. Ned replied in a loud, cheerful tone to the question, and then without further delay drew out the two notes, and told in few words the errand on which he had come. He was encouraged by watching the sympathizing expression on the face of Persis as she read.
"Dear Norah! I should so much like to go with her to-morrow!" said Persis.
"I'm afraid, though, that you could not be spared," observed Franks, glancing at the old man, who, restless at having been silent for nearly five minutes, broke out again with his tiresome question, this time addressed to his grand-daughter.
"Mr. Franks had a sad fall," she replied, without giving the slightest sign of impatience; and then, turning to Ned, she said, speaking fast, because certain to be soon interrupted, "I think that I could manage to go, indeed I'm certain that I could. We have at present two quiet lodgers, Mr. Isaacs, a working jeweller, and Benoni, his dear little boy; one or both of them, I am sure, would kindly watch my grandfather during the few hours of—"
"What have you done with your hand?" asked the poor old man, who would have interrupted the conversation had it been one of life-or-death importance.
Taking example by Persis, Ned answered at once, without suffering either a smile to rise to his lips, or a frown of impatience to his brow. Persis felt obliged by the sailor's forbearance, and seeing his eyes rest for a moment on an old-fashioned drawing hung over the fire-place, representing a tall young farmer in top-boots, she said, "that is a likeness of my grandfather."
Nothing could have presented a greater contrast to the shrivelled, wrinkled old man in the arm-chair, than the picture of the jovial rosy-cheeked swain. It seemed to preach this lesson to youth, "show indulgence to imbecile age; for if you are now strong and hearty as he was once, as he is now you may be." Such at least was the thought which arose in the mind of Ned Franks; but he had to pay for his lesson. Old Meade, seeing them looking at the picture, began at once a mumbled story which promised to be endless, of something that had happened at the time that picture was taken, rambling into an account of all that he had done or could have done when he was a gay young fellow, till Franks was obliged to rise, fearing to be late for the opening of school. The sailor could scarcely manage to get in a few hurried words of arrangements for the following day, and had scarcely time to thank Persis for her ready compliance with Norah's wish.
"Well," thought Franks, as he rapidly strode up the dell, "the life that maiden has chosen for herself is one that requires the patience of a saint! Chosen for herself! Is it not rather that which she deems appointed for her by God? What she does, she does unto Him, and this doubtless makes her able to bear and forbear, and watch with such tender care over one who, as Bessy said, had never shown her particular kindness. It does seem to me that it would be easier to be martyred at once, than to have for ever to take in tow such a water-logged old barge as that! I do believe that God counts as martyrs those who, for His sake, lead a life of quiet, patient self-denial, seeking not to do their own will, but the will of their Heavenly Master. Persis Meade looks like one who has God's sunshine around her!"
Ned Franks often repeated his visits to the ivy-covered cottage in the dell; but for weeks he never saw old Meade, without having to shout out an answer to the question, "What have you done with your hand?"