"Ha!" repeated Mr. Rawdon. "That is why she so disdainfully wished to be beholden to nobody."
After a slight pause, he asked carelessly—"Have you been doing too much to-day?"
"No. The more the better just now. Less time for thought."
Mr. Rawdon gave him another glance.
"I believe the strain is rather too much for me sometimes." Mr. Wilmot spoke low. "Do what I will, I cannot help expecting—watching myself—dwelling on what may come."
"And the fact that you cannot speak to Annie makes you, of course, suffer the more," Mr. Rawdon said, carelessly still, as he slipped an arm into the clergyman's. "My dear Wilmot, it was a mere scratch—almost a nothing. I do not say that it was an absolute nothing, of course. But the prompt measures taken—How is your wrist to-day? You were coming to see me again to-morrow, I think."
"It seems to be steadily healing. That is as should be. Yes, you burnt deeply. The thing could not have been done with more thoroughness. But still—"
A sigh came after the word. There was just the "but still!" Mr. Rawdon knew it, and so did Mr. Wilmot. Say what they might, there could be no certainty of escape. Prompt and thorough measures had been taken—but still! And the dawn of a new hope which now exists for such as are in Mr. Wilmot's case had not then become known.
"I wish you could banish the whole thing from your mind," said Mr. Rawdon.
"Impossible," was the quiet answer. "I do not repine, Rawdon. If the time came over again, I would do the same again, knowing what lay before me. And if—if it is God's will to call me to His presence through that gate of suffering—I think I can say truly that I am willing. Willingness does not mean stoical indifference, however. Flesh and heart may shrink—must shrink—under some circumstances."