There is the long chair in which she lies nearly always; there is the cushion on which the tired head is leaned, a small beautifully-shaped head, and the sharp features are distinct on the dark velvet, for the lamp is on the mantelpiece, and the light falls full on the profile. The curtains are drawn, and the eyes animate with gratitude when Mike enters with his roses, and after asking kindly questions he takes a vase, and filling it with water, places the flowers therein, and sets it on the table beside her. There is her fire—(few indeed are the days in summer when she is without it)—the singing kettle suggests the homely tea, and the saucepan on the hearth the invalid. There is her bookcase, set with poetry and religion, and in one corner are the yellow-backed French novels that Mike has given her. They are the touches the most conclusive of reality in her life; and she often smiles, thinking how her friends will strive to explain how they came into her life when she is gone.
"How good of you to come and see me! Tell me about yourself, what you have been doing. I want to hear you talk."
"Well, I've brought you this book; it is a lovely book—you can read it—I think you can read it, otherwise I should not have given it to you."
He remained with her till seven, talking to her about hunting, shooting, literature, and card-playing.
"Now I must go," he said, glancing at the clock.
"Oh, so soon," exclaimed Miss Dudley, waking from her dream; "must you go?"
"I'm afraid I must; I haven't dined yet."
"And what are you going to do after dinner? You are going to play cards."
"How did you guess that?"
"I can't say," she said, laughing; "I think I can often guess your thoughts."