There was silence for a few moments in the little room. Bernard could have said several things, but he did not wish to speak against his mother. Presently, however, he remarked,
"I don't feel as if I could get well here. These are such nasty, fusty rooms--so depressing--such a want of air and light--so different from dear old Yorkshire and the breezes to be had on Askern Hill. Do you remember Askern Hill, Doris?"
Did she remember? The colour returned into her pale cheeks, and the light into her eyes, as she remembered the last happy occasion upon which she and Bernard trod that hill.
"Oh, Bernard, you ought to go back there!" she said. "My poor boy, you would get well and strong if you were there again."
"You also," he rejoined, with a look of yearning love. "Oh, Doris, if we could return together!"
"If wishes were horses beggars would ride," she said, lightly. "Look here!" she spread a little heap of bank-notes before his astonished eyes. "Count them. There are ninety pounds," she said, for she had brought with her the money she had saved.
"Ninety pounds!" exclaimed he.
"Yes. Ninety pounds. It is yours. I repay that much of our debt to you to-day."
"Ninety pounds! You repay! Debt!" cried he, in bewilderment and indignation. "What nonsense! I cannot take your money."
"You must! I insist upon it! I have earned it for you. See. It is all yours," and, gathering up the money, she tried to put it into his hand.