“I can’t help it, my dear,” said Mrs Bolter, turning to Grey, after some hours’ silence, “I can’t help thinking that something serious is wrong. Oh! how shocking it would be to be deprived of our protectors!”
“But Dr Bolter has been away for longer at a time than this, has he not?” said Grey, as she sat there, wondering whether the officers of the expedition were safe—above all, Captain Hilton.
“Yes, my dear,” said the little lady, with a sigh; “he has been away longer before now; but no news of my brother—no news of him—it is very hard to bear.”
“No, no, no,” whispered Grey, passing a soft arm round her neck; “try and be patient—try and think hopefully of everything. We must be patient at a time like this.”
“But you cannot feel as I do, my dear,” cried Mrs Bolter. “You have friends away, but not one whom you dwell upon as I do.”
Grey’s eyes wore a very piteous aspect, but she said nothing, only did battle with a sigh, which conquered and fought its way from her labouring breast.
“But I am trying, Grey, my darling,” said the little woman, drying her eyes; “you know how patient I have been, and how I have taken your advice. Not one allusion have I made to the Inche Maida since you talked to me as you did. Now, have I not been patient?”
“You have indeed,” said Grey, smiling at her sadly.
“And I’m going to take your advice thoroughly, for I’m beginning to think that the little girl I began by patronising has grown wiser than I. There, you see, I have dried my eyes, and—Bless my heart, here is Mr Stuart, and he will see that I have been crying.”
She jumped up and ran out of the room as the little merchant came to the door, and entered without ceremony.