The sight of her wan face was a shock to him.
"No, dear, I can hear nothing," he said softly, putting his arm round her. Marjorie rested against him, letting her tired young limbs collapse against his strength. Inspired by some instinct she did not understand, she had left her mother's sofa, where Mr. Pelham was now sitting, waiting for the return of a messenger. They two, it seemed to Marjorie, with a mutual sorrow could understand each other. She felt somehow restless, uneasy, unworthy, as she coldly responded to Mr. Pelham's sympathy and care. At his suggestion she had come away to prepare some tea for her mother, and in passing through the hall had been lured to the open door by the sound of Mr. Warde's footsteps on the flagstones. The quick, firm tread encouraged hope. She could rest on him. The very sight of his kind, familiar face seemed to renew her strength and courage.
"See! on that little tower on the chapel."
After a minute's silence, during which his hand had caressed the soft waves of her hair, he asked, "What could Sandy want the blanket for? I have been trying to think."
"So have we—mother and I. Poor mother!" Marjorie sighed.
"Is she alone?" he asked.
"No. Mr. Pelham is with her; he understands, he is tender and careful; and she is full of hope now—she comforts him. Father has gone to the river."
Marjorie gave a little shudder.