"You think most of her."
"I do," said he, firmly. "He is reaping what he sowed, poor man! God knows I pity him. But she is as good as an angel of heaven."
It was evident that, somehow or other, John had learnt a great deal about the father and daughter. However, now was not the time to question him. For at this moment, through the opened doors, we heard faint moans that pierced the whole house, and too surely came from the sick—possibly, the dying—man. Mrs. Tod, who had been seeing Dr. Brown to his horse, now entered our parlour—pale, with swollen eyes.
"Oh, Mr. Halifax!" and the kind soul burst out into crying afresh. John made her sit down, and gave her a glass of wine.
"I've been with them since four this morning, and it makes me weakly like," said she. "That poor Mr. March!—I didn't like him very much alive, but I do feel so sorry now he's a-dying."
Then he WAS dying.
"Does his daughter know?" I asked.
"No—no—I dare not tell her. Nobody dare."
"Does she not guess it?"
"Not a bit. Poor young body! she's never seen anybody so. She fancies him no worse than he has been, and has got over it. She WOULDN'T think else. She be a good daughter to him—that she be!"