Mrs. Greydon greeted him on the portico with such kindly words of welcome, and the black servants stood looking on with such respectful silence, that Barclugh could not help but wonder if it were not his own mother in his own home who was now greeting him.
The Doctor soon made him lie down on the snowy white bed, and ordered an egg-nog for his refreshment.
Sentiments of the tenderest feelings welled up in his breast upon the receipt of such hospitality, and he murmured to himself as he lay on his bed, peacefully resting:
“This kindness to me passeth all understanding. How shall I ever express my gratitude and return this compliment that has been paid me? No, I never expected such treatment as this from the hands of those whose cause I am endeavoring to defeat. Well, my turn will come, and then I shall show them my breeding.”
For the next few days Dr. Greydon would not allow Roderick Barclugh to move out of his bed, for his strength was not enough yet to allow very much exertion; but the new surroundings, and especially the beautiful presence of Mollie Greydon, were an inspiration to him.
Mollie took a lively interest in the welfare of her father’s guest and patient. Every morning she brought a fresh bouquet of the brightest flowers from the garden and placed them in the sick-room herself; then in the afternoon, she brought her Latin works along with her, and read selections to him.
She noticed how longingly he watched her depart.
In the sweet modulations of her voice, Barclugh found repose as he lay on his bed,—weak and emaciated. His strength was not enough to allow him to converse at much length, so that after Mollie had read these classics to him, his heart throbbed with tender emotions and the words that left his lips when she had finished:
“I thank you, Miss Greydon,” had the pathos of a heart full of gratitude.