“Ah, my dear,” said Mrs Berens, entering the room, flower-bearing, and bending down over the invalid with a good deal of gushing sentiment, but plenty of genuine affection.
“It’s very good of you to come, Mrs Berens,” cried Mary, flushing. “And the flowers—for me?”
“For you? Yes,” said the widow, plumping down on her knees by Mary’s couch, and playfully laying the bouquet upon Mary’s bosom, and holding it there beneath her chin. “Now it’s perfect. It only wanted your sweet rose of a face added to it. My dear, what an angel’s face you have!”
“Mrs Berens!” cried Mary, flushing more deeply, half annoyed, half amused at her visitor’s flattering words; but there was no feeling anything but pleasure at the affectionate kiss pressed upon her lips, and the tender touches of the two well-gloved hands.
“There, I’ve come to have a quiet chat with you,” said the widow. “I ought to have been in before, but I have been so unwell, my dear; obliged to send for Dr North.”
“I’m very sorry, Mrs Berens,” said Mary, laying her hand in those of the widow.
“I knew you would be, dear; and, oh, I have been so poorly.”
“But you are better now?” said Mary kindly.
“No, no, my dear. I’m a poor, weak, unhappy woman, and—oh! I ought to be ashamed of myself, that I ought, to go on like that when there you are so ill and yet so patient that one never hears a murmur escape your lips.”
“I don’t think I’m very ill, Mrs Berens.”