“And how was it? Of what were we talking, Tony? Tell me what I was saying to you.”
Tony was afraid to refer to what he feared might have had some share in her late seizure; he dreaded to recur to it.
“I think I remember it,” said she, slowly, and as if struggling with the difficulty of a mental effort. “But stay; is not that the wicket I heard? Father is coming, Tony;” and as she spoke, the heavy foot of the minister was heard on the passage.
“Eh, Tony man, ye here? I'd rather hae seen ye at the evening lecture; but ye 're no fond of our form of worship, I believe. The Colonel, your father, I have heard, was a strong Episcopalian.”
“I was on my way to Coleraine, doctor, and I turned off at the mill to see Dolly, and ask her how she was.”
“Ye winna stay to supper, then?” said the old man, who, hospitable enough on ordinary occasions, had no wish to see the Sabbath evening's meal invaded by the presence of a guest, even of one so well known as Tony.
Tony muttered some not very connected excuses, while his eyes turned to Dolly, who, still pale and sickly-looking, gave him one little brief nod, as though to say it were better he should go; and the old minister himself stood erect in the middle of the floor, calmly and almost coldly waiting the words “Good-bye.”
“Am I to tell mother you 'll come to us to-morrow, doctor,—you and Dolly?” asked Tony, with his band on the door.
“It's no on the Sabbath evening we should turn our thoughts to feastin', Master Tony; and none know that better than your worthy mother. I wish you a good-evening and a pleasant walk.”
“Good-night,” said Tony, shutting the door sharply; “and,” muttered he to himself, “if you catch me crossing your threshold again, Sabbath or week-day—” He stopped, heaved a deep sigh, and, drawing his hand across his eyes, said, “My poor dear Dolly, hasn't my precious temper done you mischief enough already, that I must let it follow you to your own quiet fireside?”