She might well progress rapidly toward health and strength. By the time the house was ready for her reception she was well enough to drive out and explore with the rest, though she looked frail and unsubstantial by contrast with Mollie's bloom and handsome Mrs. Phil's grand curves. She was gaining flesh and color every day, but the slender throat and wrists and transparent hands were a bitter reproach to Grif even then, and it would be many weeks before she could again indulge in that old harmless vanity in her dimples and smooth roundness of form.
Mollie mourned over her long, in secret, and, indeed, was so heart-wrung by the sight of the change she found in her, that the very day of her arrival had not drawn to its close before she burst upon her with a remorseful appeal for forgiveness.
“But even if you forgive me I shall not forgive myself,” she said. “I shall never forget that dreadful night when I found out that it was all my fault, and that you had borne everything without telling me. If—if it had not been for—for Mr. Gowan, Dolly, I think I should have died.”
“If it had not been for whom?” asked Dolly.
“Mr. Gowan,” answered Miss Mollie, dropping her eyes, her very throat dyed with guilty blushes.
“Ah!” said Dolly. “And what did Mr. Gowan do, Mollie?”
“He was very kind—and sympathizing,” replied Mollie.
“He always is sympathizing,” looking at her with affectionate shrewdness. “He is very nice, is n't he, Mollie?”
“Yes,” said Mollie. “Very nice, indeed.”
“And I dare say you were so frightened and wretched that you cried?”