Luke found the table spread for his benefit as he crossed the room to go gently up-stairs and bend over the bed, where, as the housekeeper had said, old Michael Ross was sleeping as calmly as an infant. So Luke stole down once more to partake of the substantial meal prepared on his special behalf, the housekeeper refusing to seat herself at the same table with him.
“No, sir,” she said, stiffly, “I know my duty to my betters too well for that. Michael Ross is an old neighbour, and knew my master well before he died, poor man.”
“Do you think one of us ought to sit with my father?” said Luke, quickly, as the woman’s last words seemed to raise up a fresh train of troublous thought.
“I’ll go and sit with him, sir, if you like,” said the woman, “but both doors are open, and the ceiling is so thin that you can almost hear him breathe.”
“Perhaps it is not necessary,” said Luke, quickly. “You’ll excuse my being anxious.”
“As if I didn’t respect you the more for it, Mr Luke, sir,” said the woman, warmly; “but as I was saying, I always had my meals with your dear father, sir.”
“Then why not sit down here?”
“Because things have changed, sir. We all know how you have got to be a famous man, and are rising still, sir; and we are proud of what you’ve done, and so I’d rather wait upon you, if you please.”
Luke partook of his meal mechanically, listening the while for any sound from up-stairs, and twice over he rose and went up to find that the sleep was perfectly undisturbed.
Then he reseated himself, and went on dreamily, thinking of the old man’s words.