“You’ve seen lots die, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” said the nurse gravely; “in spite of all our efforts; and I have seen many grow strong and well, thanks to the skill of Sir Denton Hayle and Mr Elthorne.”
“We always call him Mr Neil at home; master’s Mr Elthorne.”
“And go away at last, cured,” continued the nurse, not heeding the interruption, “thankful for Heaven’s mercy and full of gratitude to those who have tended them.”
“So am I,” said Maria, shortly. “You think I’m not, but I am.”
“Hush! Do not talk. You are getting flushed and excited. Here is Sir Denton.”
“That’s right,” muttered Maria, as the nurse left the bedside to go toward a slight little white-haired gentleman, closely shaven, and whose lips were closely compressed, as, with his large, deeply-set eyes he gave a quick glance round the ward, which became perfectly still as he approached.
“Good-morning,” he said. “Come, my child, this will not do. Too pale! Too much application. The nurse will have to be nursed if we go on like this.”
“Oh, no, I am quite well, Sir Denton,” she said, smiling, with quite an affectionate look in her face.
“Then I am an ignorant old pretender, my child,” he said gravely. “Well, Elthorne, anything special to report?”