“Goodness knows,” said Mary; “I never knew him do such a thing before.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Morris, “it’s Lucy Blyth’s magic. That girl’s an angel if ever there was one. If your fayther would only go to meeting nobody knows what might happen.” Here the good woman sighed at what appeared to her a vista of delight too good to hope for.
Meanwhile Lucy Blyth and her boorish escort were making their way through the wintry night towards Nestleton Forge. Happily for Morris, with whom words were always few, and usually gruff, his companion rushed into conversation—not that she was that social nuisance, a wordy woman, but that she was a born politician, and meant to turn the golden moments to good account.
“Mrs. Morris is much better and brighter to-night. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes,” was the emphatic reply, “because she’s had you to cheer her up. She does get desperate worritsome at times, though.”
“Why, you see, Mr. Morris, it is hard for her to be almost always a prisoner in her chair, and as for her sick headaches, I don’t know how she does to bear them.”
“Yes, I daresay it’s hard enough,” was the brief reply.
“Mary’s a great comfort to her,” said Lucy. “She is so quiet and gentle, and nurses her so tenderly. I often wonder how she manages to get through her work so well. I do like Mary.”
“Yes, Poll’s a good lass,” said Morris, laconically.
“How kind and nice it is that those boys should come so often and so far to see their mother! I was pleased to hear about Bob.”