"You have been very ill, my poor boy! Forgive me—but I am an old woman, you know. Lie down again."
With gentle force she compelled him, and sat down by his side.
"I had no idea—why did you not let us know—the doctor and me? How long have you been ill?"
"I am quite well now—I am indeed. I shall be about again tomorrow, shall I not, Phineas?" and he looked eagerly to me for confirmation.
I gave it, firmly and proudly. I was glad she should know it—glad she should see that the priceless jewel of his heart would not lie tossing in the mire because a haughty girl scorned to wear it. Glad that she might one day find out there lived not the woman of whom John Halifax was not worthy.
"But you must be very careful—very careful of yourself, indeed."
"He will, Mrs. Jessop. Or, if not, he has many to take care of him. Many to whom his life is most precious and most dear."
I spoke—perhaps more abruptly than I ought to have spoken to that good old lady—but her gentle answer seemed at once to understand and forgive me.
"I well believe that, Mr. Fletcher. And I think Mr. Halifax hardly knows how much we—we all—esteem him." And with a kind motherly gesture she took John's hand. "You must make haste and get well now. My husband will come and see you to-morrow. For Ursula—" here she carefully busied herself in the depths of her pocket—"my dear child sends you this."
It was a little note—unsealed. The superscription was simply his name, in her clear, round, fair hand-writing—"John Halifax."