“I know him pretty well.”
“You know his home-side. You have seen him with his mother; speak of him as a son.”
“He is a fine-hearted son; his mother’s comfort and hope, her pride and pleasure.”
She held my hand between hers, and at each favourable word gave it a little caressing stroke.
“In what other way is he good, Lucy?”
“Dr. Bretton is benevolent—humanely disposed towards all his race, Dr. Bretton would have benignity for the lowest savage, or the worst criminal.”
“I heard some gentlemen, some of papa’s friends, who were talking about him, say the same. They say many of the poor patients at the hospitals, who tremble before some pitiless and selfish surgeons, welcome him.”
“They are right; I have witnessed as much. He once took me over a hospital; I saw how he was received: your father’s friends are right.”
The softest gratitude animated her eye as she lifted it a moment. She had yet more to say, but seemed hesitating about time and place. Dusk was beginning to reign; her parlour fire already glowed with twilight ruddiness; but I thought she wished the room dimmer, the hour later.
“How quiet and secluded we feel here!” I remarked, to reassure her.