“No wonder!” was all he said.
Ethel was soon satisfied that he did not think Mary ill. In fact, he said fainting was the most natural and justifiable measure, under the circumstances. “How many human creatures do you keep there?” he asked.
“Forty-seven to-day,” said Mary proudly.
“I shall indict you for cruelty to animals! I think I have known it hotter at Poonshedagore, but there we had punkahs!”
“It was very wrong of me,” said Ethel. “I should have thought of poor Mary, in that sunny walk, but Mary never complains.”
“Oh, never mind,” said Mary, “it did not hurt.”
“I’m not thinking of Mary,” said Dr. Spencer, “but of the wretched beings you are leaving shut up there. I wonder what the mercury would be there.”
“We cannot help it,” said Mary. “We cannot get the ground.”
And Mary, having been voted into the seat of honour and comfort by his side in the carriage, told her version of Cocksmoor and the Committee; while Ethel sat up in the little narrow seat behind, severely reproaching herself for her want of consideration towards one so good and patient as Mary, who proved to have been suffering far more on Harry’s account than they had guessed, and who was so simple and thorough-going in doing her duty. This was not being a good elder sister, and, when they came home, she confessed it, and showed so much remorse that poor Mary was quite shocked, and cried so bitterly that it was necessary to quit the subject.
“Ethel, dearest,” said Margaret that night, after they were in bed, “is there anything the matter?”