“Oh!” said North quietly; and then to himself: “I can’t bear that girl!”
Just as he spoke he saw Leo Salis enter the meadow gate after her walk, and soon after she came into the room, looking perfectly quiet and composed.
“What does the London doctor say?” she asked, after shaking hands with North.
“Don’t ask, Leo,” said the curate, with a groan.
“Poor Mary!” said Leo, with a sigh, but she did not seem stirred. There were no tears in her eyes, and she might have been making inquiry about the health of some parishioner.
So North thought.
“I’ll go up and sit with her now, Hartley,” she said quickly, and turned to leave the room, when Horace North’s eyes became fixed upon a white mark at the back of the young girl’s sleeve—a mark which looked exactly as if her arm had been held by some one wearing a well pipe-clayed glove.
The next moment the young girl, the dark sleeve, and the white mark had passed from Horace North’s sight, and soon after from his mind.