“Most thankworthy,” said Mrs. Evelyn.
There was a brief space spent silently by both Mrs. Evelyn and her son on their knees, and then the former went up to the little bachelor-room where in the throng of guests John had been bestowed, and where she found him lying, rather pale, but very content, and her eyes filled with tears as she took his hand, saying—
“You know what I have come for?”
“How is she?” he said, looking eagerly in her face.
“Well, I think, but rather strained and very much tired, so I shall keep her in her room for precaution’s sake, as to-morrow will be a bustling day. I trust you will be equally wise.”
“I have submitted, but I did not think it requisite. Pray don’t trouble about me.”
“What, when I think how it would have been without you? No, I will not tease you by talking about it, but you know how we shall always feel for you. Are you in much pain now?”
“Nothing to signify, now it has been bandaged, thank you. I shall soon be all right. Did she make you understand her wonderful courage and resolution in holding up that heavy boy all that time?”
Mrs. Evelyn let John expatiate on her daughter’s heroism till steps were heard approaching, and his aunt knocked at the door. Perhaps she was the person most tried when she looked into his bright, dark eyes, and understood the thrill in his voice as he told of Sydney’s bravery and resolution. She guessed what emotion gave sweetness to his thankfulness, and feared if he did not yet understand it he soon would, and then what pain would be in store for one or other of the cousins. When Mrs. Evelyn asked him if he had really sent the message that his fractured ribs were of no consequence, his aunt’s foreboding spirit feared they might prove of only too much consequence; but at least, if he were a supplanter, it would be quite unconsciously.
As Barbara said, when she came up from the diminished dinner-party to spend the evening with her friend—