Macneillie rang for tea, and then they discussed the future arrangements of which he cordially approved.
“And how about the poor little thing who was burnt? Is she getting on well?” asked Mrs. Hereford.
“I have just been to see her,” said Macneillie. “Miss Orme and I took her some flowers. She is suffering a great deal still poor child, but they say she is wonderfully patient.”
“I don’t seem to remember her. Was she with you at Southbourne?”
“No, she has only been with us a year,” said Macneillie. “And was getting on remarkably well. I hope she will be fit to act by Easter. She had a very narrow escape, and owed her life to Mrs. Denmead’s presence of mind and courage! They will be greater friends than ever after this.”
“I should like to go and see her,” said Mrs. Hereford. “Or is she hardly up to visitors yet?”
“Oh, she would like to see you,” said Ralph, “for she has heard so much about you.”
“I am not going to ask to see Evereld to-day, for I am quite sure she ought to be kept absolutely quiet,” said Mrs. Hereford. “You must tell her how much I look forward to having her later on. Suppose we walk round to the hospital now. There will just be time before my return train.”
Her cheery sensible talk did more for Ralph than anything else could have done; he poured out all his anxieties to her, and found in her motherly wisdom and her hopeful words exactly what he needed to tide him over the difficulties which overwhelmed him.
“What is it about her?” he thought to himself, as he paced up and down outside the hospital while she paid her visit to Ivy. “She seems to me just like a gleam of sunshine on a dark day, or a fresh breeze in the summer. I have met plenty of Irish women who were friendly and pleasant and delightful to talk to, but it isn’t a mere matter of charm with her,—she seems to have a heart wide enough to take in every one that is in trouble.”