I was much surprised one afternoon to see a carriage and pair drive under our porch—Mrs. de Castro’s visitors came in gharries or on foot. She rushed to me with a scared face, waving a visiting card in her hand.
“It’s Mrs. Hodson, the wife of the superintendent of the jail; she’s asking to see you!”
All sorts of dreadful visions passed through my mind. Could Ronnie be dead, and had she come to break the news?
“Show her into my little room,” I said—one of the bare apartments I had fixed up with a writing-table, a few cheap chairs and a couple of rugs. Here I sat, read, and worked—nothing would induce me to frequent the dismal drawing-room.
Presently Mrs. Hodson was ushered in; a plain pale woman, with a long thoughtful face and a pleasant smile.
“I hope you won’t think that I have taken a liberty,” she said, “but my husband thought that perhaps you might like to make my acquaintance.”
“It is most kind of you,” I murmured; “won’t you sit down?”
“You do not know anyone here, nor wish to know them, I understand, but still perhaps you will make an exception of me. You might like to come up and sit in our lovely garden and feel that you are near him, and that we are always ready to befriend you both.”
“You are very kind,” I repeated. “Can you tell me how he is?”
“Yes, he is more resigned. Since he has had your message and those books you sent to the library he seems more cheerful, and is no longer losing weight. As he is steady they have made him a convict warder, so now the rules are relaxed. You will be able to see him to-morrow afternoon, and I will send the carriage for you.”