Hope came to Mary and said, tenderly, "What can I say or do to comfort you?"
Mary shook her head. "I asked you to mend my prospects; but you can't do that. They are desperate. You can do nothing for me now but comfort me with your kind voice. And mend my poor wrist—ha! ha! ha! oh! oh!" (Hysterical.)
"What?" cried Hope, in sudden alarm; "is it hurt? Is it sprained?"
Mary recovered her composure. "Oh no," said she; "only twisted a little.
Papa was so rough."
Hope went into a rage again. "Perdition!" cried he. "I'll go and end this once for all."
"You will do nothing of the kind," said the quick-witted girl. "Oh, Mr. Hope, would you break my heart altogether, quarrelling with papa? Be reasonable. I tell you he couldn't help it, that old monster insulted him so. It hurts, for all that," said she, naively, and held him out a lovely white wrist with a red mark on it.
Hope inspected it. "Poor little wrist," said he. "I think I can cure it."
Then he went into his office for something to bind it with.
But he had spoken those few words as one speaks to an afflicted child. There was a mellow softness and an undisguised paternity in his tones—and what more natural, the girl being in pain?
But Mary's ear was so acute that these tones carried her out of the present situation, and seemed to stir the depths of memory. She fell into a little reverie, and asked herself had she not heard a voice like that many years ago.
She was puzzling herself a little over this when Hope returned with a long thin band of white Indian cotton, steeped in water, and, taking her hand gently, began to bind her wrist with great lightness and delicacy. And as he bound it he said, "There, the pain will soon go."