“It’s a long walk to Bright’s farm,” observed Mr. Crosbie, rising and strolling to the window, and stooping apparently to sniff the bowl of flowers standing on the ledge, but in reality to have a good look down the hot, dusty lane.
“Ay, it is, sir; but Margery would go. She takes such count on me, sir; and it’s her lesson day and all.”
“Is she still studying with the rector’s governess?”
“Yes, sir; her ladyship, when she wrote last, desired her to continue the lessons, and Miss Lawson speaks main well of Margery’s cleverness. I expect Lady Coningham won’t know her when she sees her again.”
“Ten years would make a difference, Mrs. Morris,” Stuart said, looking round with a smile; “and Margery was only about seven when Lady Coningham went to India. What a jolly little thing she was, too! We had some fun in those days.”
“Margery is a bit of a tomboy now,” the sick woman observed, with a loving light in her eyes.
“Is she? Well, I never see it; she always seems as sedate as—well, as the rector’s governess herself. But I must be off. Tell Reuben I looked in to hear about the poachers, and that I don’t sympathize with him a bit for spending the night in the wood.” He bent and took one of the invalid’s thin white hands in his. “And now don’t get low-spirited about yourself, Mrs. Morris; you will feel better when this heat passes. I shall send you some fruit down from the castle. I dare say you can manage a few grapes.”
“Many, many thanks, Mr. Stuart, and Heaven bless you, sir! You are very good to me.”
Tears rolled down Mrs. Morris’ pale face, and the young squire turned away with a sudden expression of sorrow. At the door he hesitated for a minute, then said hurriedly:
“I shall walk a little way along Linton’s Lane, Mrs. Morris. I want to ask Margery about Bright’s crops.”