“Because then Harry would never have been always dreaming about gold, and Tarshish and Ophir, and all that stuff!”
“My dear Mrs Bolter,” continued Grey, affectionately, “I feel that I am perfectly right about Doctor Bolter, and I hope you will not be hurt when I tell you that I think you are very hard and unjust to him!”
“Hurt, my darling!” sobbed the little woman, “no, indeed I am very grateful, my dear, and I wish you would scold me well. It would do me good!”
“I am sure, then, without scolding you,” said Grey, smiling, “that the doctor is one of the best of men!”
“He is—he is, indeed, my dear!” cried Mrs Bolter; “and I’m sure I’d forgive him anything!”
“And you have nothing to forgive,” said Grey. “I am sure of it; and I hope and pray that you will not be so unjust!”
“Do you think I am unjust, my dear?” said the little lady.
“Unintentionally, yes,” replied Grey; “and it is such, a pity that there should be clouds in such a happy home!”
“You—you are—a dear little angel of goodness, Grey!” sobbed Mrs Bolter; “and you seem to come like sunshine into my poor, weak, foolish heart; and I’ll never be suspicious or unkind to him again! He’s only studying a little up the river of course; and I’m—as you’ve shown me—a weak, foolish, cruel—”
“Affectionate, loving wife,” interrupted Grey, who felt herself crushed the next moment in little Mrs Bolter’s arms.