“And I pray God to bless you in your future, and make you very happy, dear. It is your brother speaking to his sister, and my words now are an honest and self-denying as ever man spoke.”
“I know it,” she said, with quivering lips, and her sweet voice thrilled him and made him falter; but he fought on. “I have known for long that you could speak nothing but the honest truth.”
“Thank you,” he said quickly; “thank you. You and I have worked together long now, and have had some triumphs of which we might boast. Where is Sir Denton? He ought to come, and we could chat over all of my projects. I shall write to you, of course, and tell you all I am doing, and you can give me a word or two of advice, perhaps. Why, nurse—I beg your pardon—Lady Cicely—your name sounds strange to me, I have so lately heard it from Sir Denton—how grateful we all ought to be for your devotion to our good cause. Forgive me for speaking so.”
She seemed plunged in thought, and not to hear his words, and he started, as she spoke now in alow, soft, dreamy way, as if uttering the thoughts that had occupied her for the past few minutes.
“You are going out possibly to your death, Neil Elthorne,” she said.
“That is the worst that can happen.”
“No,” she said softly, “not the worst. You are going yonder to fight with disease, forsaking all who love you, offering up your own life as a sacrifice, that yonder poor stricken creatures may live.”
“Heaven only knows,” he said solemnly.
“You are going alone, to face the horrors of a pestilence without the help such as you find here.”
“Yes, but I shall soon get assistance, and till then I must do my best.”