What the trying it had reference to we shall soon see. Mrs. Fowler put on her Sunday’s gown and bonnet, put on her scarlet shawl and her sable boa, and telling the miller she would soon return, went out into the keen January air, and took her way to the bridge that spanned the rapid Don. For the good lady was far too old to try the ford, or climb the rocks, or trust herself in the dark little footpath, that led through the forest to Nannie’s house. She arrived there in good time for all that.
Nannie was spinning, but strange to say, she was always glad to see Mrs. Fowler. So she put aside the reel and bustled about to get tea ready.
“And is he getting any better?” asked Nannie at length, referring to the miller. The question was asked in seemingly a half-careless tone, but none knew but herself, how her heart was beating all the while.
“Na, na, poor man,” said Janet, for that was her maiden name, “he is no long for this world.”
Nannie had turned away her head, and buried her face in her hands. Presently she was sobbing like a child. Janet spoke not.
“Oh,” cried poor Nannie, “I must, I shall see him before he dies.”
Then Janet spoke.
“And God in heaven bless you, my bonnie bairn, for those words; for you’re the only one in this weary world that can save his life.”
“No,—but,” said Nannie, “if he really is going to live, you know,—I—a—”
Oh the inconsistency of women! A moment before, and she would have given all she possessed in the world for one glance of the loved face; now, because he was going to live,—oh, dear!