“Good! Set about it to-day.”
“I’ll find Jane at once. And, now, I’ve been here with you quite a long time, and there are many things for me to attend to.”
“No, not yet,” he pleaded with an invalid’s sigh, a very mechanical one; but he had found it effectual in reaching Dora’s heart on previous occasions. It was efficacious to-day. Her heart was full to bursting with joy and love and—the spring. Dick again raised the delicate question of the date of their marriage, 346 and Dora no longer procrastinated. It should take place as soon as ever the rector and his wife were reconciled.
John Swinton, who was just beginning to move about the house, white-faced and shaky, with a lustreless eye and snow-white head, was awakened from his torpor by a tremendous bustling up and down stairs. Furniture strewed the landing outside his wife’s room, and it was evident that something was going on.
“What is happening?” he asked on one occasion, when he found the road to the staircase absolutely barred.
“The mistress’s room is being prepared for her return,” replied Jane, to whom the query was addressed.
He started as though someone had struck him in the breast.
“Coming home,” he gasped, staring at the woman with dropped jaw and wondering eye.
“Miss Dora’s orders, sir. She said the room might be wanted any day now, and it must be cleaned.”