“Dear heart, no. I live at my own farm, a hundred and eighty miles from this.”
“What a pity!”
“Why, sir?”
“Well—hum!”
“Oh, if you think I could do the poor doctor good by having him with me, you have only to say the word, and out he goes with Dick and me to-morrow morning. We should have started for home to-night, but for this.”
“Are you in earnest, madam?” said the doctor, opening his eyes. “Would you really encumber yourself with a person whose reason is in suspense, and may never return?”
“But that is not his fault, sir. Why, if a dog had saved my brother's life, I'd take it home, and keep it all its days; and this is a man, and a worthy man. Oh, sir, when I saw him brought down so, and his beautiful eyes clouded like, my very bosom yearned over the poor soul; a kind act done in dear old England, who can see the man in trouble here, and not repay it—ay, if it cost one's blood. But indeed he is strong and healthy, and hands are always scarce our way, and the odds are he will earn his meat one way or t'other; and if he doesn't, why, all the better for me; I shall have the pleasure of serving him for nought that once served me for neither money nor reward.”
“You are a good woman,” said the doctor warmly.
“There's better, and there's worse,” said Phoebe quietly, and even a little coldly.
“More of the latter,” said the doctor dryly. “Well, Mrs.—?”