My father awoke—rubbed his eyes—became aware of a lady's presence—rubbed them again, and sat staring.
John led Ursula to the old man's chair.
"Mr. Fletcher, this is Miss March, a friend of mine, who, hearing I was ill, out of her great kindness—"
His voice faltered. Miss March added, in a low tone, with downcast eyelids:
"I am an orphan, and he was kind to my dear father."
Abel Fletcher nodded—adjusted his spectacles—eyed her all over—and nodded again; slowly, gravely, with a satisfied inspection. His hard gaze lingered, and softened while it lingered, on that young face, whereon was written simplicity, dignity, truth.
"If thee be a friend of John's, welcome to my house. Wilt thee sit down?"
Offering his hand, with a mixture of kindness and ceremonious grace that I had never before seen in my Quaker father, he placed her in his own arm-chair. How well I remember her sitting there, in her black silk pelisse, trimmed with the white fur she was so fond of wearing, and her riding-hat, the soft feathers of which drooped on her shoulder, trembling as she trembled. For she did tremble very much.
Gradually the old man's perception opened to the facts before him. He ceased his sharp scrutiny, and half smiled.
"Wilt thee stay, and have a dish of tea with us?"