“My dear boy, in two or three years’ time there’ll be absolutely no objection to you telling her so. And there’s nobody I should be gladder to give her to. But I do think that for the present this is the only way.”
Her words woke in Morris a fleeting recollection of Sidney Carton, and the realization of his own self-abnegation almost overcame him.
“Let me take that tea-basket,” he muttered hastily. “Isn’t Frances coming?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve sent her to bed altogether. To tell you the truth, Morris, I’m a good deal worried about her, and if she’s no better this evening I shall ask you to call at Dr. Lee’s on your way to Pensevern, and send him up here. She’s got a temperature—though, of course, that doesn’t mean much with her.”
“Is she so delicate?”
“She’s much stronger than she was when I first had her,” said Bertha decidedly. “But if she’s not better next week I certainly shan’t leave her. The other two will have to pay their visits alone. Poor Francie! She’ll be miserable at my not having the change, but I couldn’t leave her.”
“You’re awfully good,” murmured the boy.
She laughed heartily.
“I’m only an old hen fussing over her brood. It’s all in the day’s work, Morris, and if it does mean giving up time here, and some little pleasure or comfort there, one doesn’t think twice about it. But don’t let’s talk about me. Fat old bodies of my age,” said Bertha, striding vigorously across the garden, “aren’t at all interesting. I consider myself as dull as ditchwater, and of no earthly use except to give you young things a helping hand now and again.”
“I think you’re the most understanding person in the whole world,” said Morris with conviction.