“Hartley!” cried Mary warmly; “how can you! Horace North must be very ill, and needs his friend’s help. Your account of his acts and words suggests delirium. Go back to him at once.”
“Go back to him?”
“Yes; at once. Have you forgotten his goodness to us—how he snatched Leo back from the jaws of death?”
“You think I ought to go, Mary?” said Salis dubiously.
“I shall think my brother is under some strange influence—suffering from wounded pride—if he does not frankly go to our old friend’s help.”
“I’ll go back at once,” cried Salis excitedly. “Why, Mary, when you were active and strong, I always thought I had to teach and take care of you. Now you are an invalid, you seem to teach and guide me.”
“No, no,” said Mary tenderly. “It is only that I lie here for many hours alone, thinking of what is best for us all. Not yet, Hartley: I want to say something else.”
“Yes,” he said, going down on one knee by her couch, and holding her hand; “what is it?”
“I want to say a few words to you about Leo,” said Mary, after a pause.
“About Leo?” said Salis uneasily.