She wore a dark skirt and white muslin sacque, loose at the throat, ungirded, and the sleeves were rolled up, exposing the symmetry of her dimpled white arms. A rich, lovely red stained her lips and cheeks—perhaps from embarrassment, probably from the heat of the oil-stove, on which, evidently, breakfast had been recently prepared. She pointed to an adjoining room, where Leighton lay on a cot close to the open window.
"Oh, sir, are they really for me?" as Mr. Herriott laid the basket and flowers beside him.
"Look, mother! Grapes, grapes! And the smell of the carnations! Was there ever anything so sweet? I don't know how to thank you, sir. I wish I could say something, but when my heart is full I just can't tell it."
His little hot hand caught Mr. Herriott's, and the thin fingers twined caressingly about it.
"You are not to thank me, and you must not talk. Remember, that was the condition upon which I was allowed to see you. Eat your grapes while your mother tells me about you."
"You will spoil him. I can't give him such luxuries as hothouse fruit and flowers, though now and then he has his bunch of violets."
"When was the doctor here?"
"Friday. He changed the medicine, but I can see no benefit as yet."
"If you think it would not tire him too much, I should like to take him out for a drive."
"Thank you, but I could not consent to that."