"Pamela," said a voice close by her, "the dews are falling, child, and you will take cold."
"Oh, Lord Glengall!" Pamela looked up startled, and then stretched a friendly hand to him.
"No; it is not a bit damp," she said. "Just feel it. I am going home presently. Sit down here. There is room for you."
But he stood watching her seriously and made no response to her invitation.
"You have been to Carrickmoyle?" she said.
"Yes, I saw him for a few minutes." There was no necessity to specify who the "him" was. He had been so much in all their minds.
"He was very comfortable," Lord Glengall continued. "Sylvia was reading to him, and his little fire was bright. He grows every day more like himself."
"Yes," said Pamela simply. "It is good to see him growing stronger. One can rest in it, and be glad, without looking forward too much."
"You mean to the winter?"
"Yes; twenty things may happen before then to help us. We have nearly five months before the doctor says he must go abroad. I am not going to think about it."