Late on the afternoon of the 6th of March, Mary Ross entered by the half-opened front door at Hollywell, just as Charles appeared slowly descending the stairs.
‘Well! how is she?’ asked Mary eagerly.
‘Poor little dear!’ he answered, with a sigh; ‘she looks very nice and comfortable.’
‘What, you have seen her?’
‘I am at this moment leaving her room.’
‘She is going on well, I hope?’
‘Perfectly well. There is one comfort at least,’ said Charles, drawing himself down the last step.
‘Dear Amy! And the babe—did you see it?’
‘Yes; the little creature was lying by her, and she put her hand on it, and gave one of those smiles that are so terribly like his; but I could not have spoken about it for the world. Such fools we be!’ concluded Charles, with an attempt at a smile.
‘It is healthy?’