But Michael had on one or two occasions, when something had stirred him more than usual, let fall a few words as to his own inner experiences, which Roger had treasured up, and rightly so, as evidences of more than brotherly regard, and of an entire confidence in him on Michael’s part.
Speaking one day about an illness of old Miss Strangforth, which had been serious, and in which both he and Dr. Rowntree had been attending her, there was a shade on Michael’s brow, and a worried, worn look on his face.
‘Is Miss Strangforth likely to die, Michael?’ asked Roger, roused to a sudden interest in the matter.
‘Oh no! At least, I most sincerely trust not. No; we will pull her through this time.’
‘Miss Wynter is helping to nurse her, of course?’
‘Yes, of course—like an angel.’
‘I should be afraid it was rather close work for her.’
‘They have a trained nurse to do the hardest part of it; and she is strong. Magdalen is very strong,’ Michael repeated to himself in a meditative kind of way. ‘And, of course, she does what I tell her about air and exercise, and all that. I hope it won’t injure her.’
‘Well, she has the best of all possible safeguards in having you there,’ said Roger, with a smile, which was, perhaps, a little forced.
He had intended his remark to be a cheering one, but, to his surprise, Michael’s answer was a deep sigh. This was enough to rouse Roger’s uneasiness. Holding his pipe suspended, he asked, anxiously, ‘Michael, what’s up? Are you in trouble?’