“Such a bonny lad,” she said, “I wonder what Miss Mary’ll say if he should die.”
Mary had heard the news at breakfast-time before her father had returned, but she made no sign, only looked very pale and grave. And as she dwelt upon the news she wondered what she would have said if John Grange had come to her and spoken as Daniel Barnett did on the previous evening.
This thought made the colour come back to her cheeks and a strange fluttering to her breast as she recalled the different times they had met, and John Grange’s tenderly respectful way towards her.
Then she chased away her thoughts, for her mother announced from the window that “father” was coming.
A minute later James Ellis entered, to sit down sadly to his breakfast, his silence being respected by mother and daughter.
At last he spoke.
“You heard, of course, about poor Grange?”
“Yes. How is he?”
“Bad—very bad. Doctor don’t say much, but it’s a serious case, I fear. Come right down on his head, close to my feet. There—I can’t eat. Only fancy, mother, talking to me as he was last night, and now lying almost at the point of death.”
He pushed away cup and plate, and sat back in his chair.