“But she is not ill, is she?” inquired kindly Miss Eliza.
“No, but she was tired, so I thought she was better where she was than driving through the streets. She will write to you to-morrow, most likely, and I scarcely know how to thank you for all your kindness to her—poor child.”
There was a tender ring in John’s voice as he said the last two words that both the gentle-hearted women noticed.
“It has been a great pleasure to us to have her here,” said Miss Webster.
“She’s a sweet flower,” sighed Miss Eliza.
“She’s a dear girl,” said John Temple; and for a moment—just a moment—a sort of moisture stole over his gray eyes.
After this Miss Webster hurried out of the room, to pack, or superintend the packing of, what she thought May would require during her few days’ proposed excursion to the sea. Thus Miss Eliza was left to entertain John Temple, which she found by no means easy to do. He was absent-minded and silent, and rose quickly when Miss Webster and the maid returned with May’s packed portmanteau.
“I have put everything in I thought she would want,” said Miss Webster; “but if I have forgotten anything, if she will telegraph I will send it at once.”
“I am sure it is all right,” said John, and he held out his hand to Miss Webster, thinking that most likely it would be the last time for years that he would press that kindly palm. “Good-by, Miss Webster; good-by, Miss Eliza; and thank you for all your great kindness.”
He left the house a few minutes later, and it was strange that both the sisters were somewhat impressed by his manner.