She came and stood by the fire, scarcely noticing us. Her fresh cheeks were faded, and she had the weary look of one who has watched for many hours. Some sort of white dimity gown that she wore added to this paleness.
"I think he is better, Mrs. Tod—decidedly better," said she, speaking quickly. "You ought to go to bed now. Let all the house be quiet. I hope you told Mr.—Oh—"
She saw us, stopped, and for the moment the faintest tinge of her roses returned. Presently she acknowledged us, with a slight bend.
John came forward. I had expected some awkwardness on his part; but no—he was thinking too little of himself for that. His demeanour—earnest, gentle, kind—was the sublimation of all manly courtesy.
"I hope, madam"—young men used the deferential word in those days always—"I do hope that Mr. March is better. We were unwilling to retire until we had heard."
"Thank you! My father is much better. You are very kind," said Miss March, with a maidenly dropping of the eyes.
"Indeed he is kind," broke in the warm-hearted Mrs. Tod. "He rode all the way to S——, his own self, to fetch the doctor."
"Did you, sir? I thought you only lent your horse."
"Oh! I like a night-ride. And you are sure, madam, that your father is better? Is there nothing else I can do for you?"
His sweet, grave manner, so much graver and older than his years, softened too with that quiet deference which marked at once the man who reverenced all women, simply for their womanhood—seemed entirely to reassure the young lady. This, and her own frankness of character, made her forget, as she apparently did, the fact that she was a young lady and he a young gentleman, meeting on unacknowledged neutral ground, perfect strangers, or knowing no more of one another than the mere surname.