"She? Who? Of whom are you speaking, Mr. Betts?"
"The lady who brought those flowers," he said.
"Why, no; she's in widow's mourning, poor thing."
"Ah, to be sure, I forgot," he murmured.
"I don't fancy she would have been smart in any case," continued the nurse. "I don't think she has much to be smart with. I noticed that her gloves were shabby. And the little girl's frock was the worse for wear."
"Ah, then the little girl was there," said Michael, with some eagerness.
"Yes, indeed, and she's the sweetest little mite that ever I saw, and with such a quick tongue. She asked me ever so many questions about you, Mr. Betts. She wanted to know how old you were, and whether your hair had turned white in your illness, and if you were able to read in bed. I think she would have liked to come and see you. Oh, and I was to be sure to tell you that if you would like her 'Pilgrim's Progress' to read whilst you were ill she would lend it to you."
"Bless her!" murmured old Michael.
He felt it would be delightful to see her come into his room. How her fair face and sunny locks would light up the old gloomy attic! Her pretty tones would be like music in his ears. But then he remembered that he had wronged her too. He could not look on her without feeling that he had injured her. It would hurt him to receive kindness from her. The wrong that he had done had raised a barrier between them. How he wished that he had taken the notes to Mrs. Lavers at once! It would have been so much easier to explain then. The thought of that past action was beginning to weigh on his mind like a load.
As he felt it thus, there was suddenly recalled to his mind the picture in the "Pilgrim's Progress" to which little Margery had drawn his attention—the picture of the man with the heavy burden on his back. He could hear the childish voice saying: