“She has fainted,” said Richard. “Here, let me carry her.”
Before Mrs Lane could speak, Richard had taken the light figure in his arms, and, guided by the frightened mother, bore it to Sam’s door.
“That’s right, sir, in there,” said Sam, eagerly—“fust door on the left’s the parly. Poor gal!”
This last was in an undertone, as the young man easily bore his burden in—finding, though, that a pair of large dark eyes had unclosed, and were gazing timidly in his, while a deep blush overspread cheek and forehead.
“There,” said Richard, laying her lightly down upon the couch, and helping to arrange the pillows with all a woman’s tenderness. “You look weak and ill, my dear, and—and—I beg pardon,” he said, hesitating, as he met Mrs Lane’s gaze, “I think we have met before.”
Mrs Lane turned white, and shrank away.
“Of course,” said Richard, smiling. “My friend here, who drove me up, told me you lodged with him.”
Mrs Lane did not speak, only bowed her head over Netta.
“If I can do anything, pray ask me,” said Richard, backing to the door, and nearly overturning bustling Mrs Jenkles, who came hurrying in with—
“Oh, my dear, you’ve been overdoing it—I beg your pardon, sir.”