Annie was leaving the kitchen. She turned her head slightly. “Dawson will send the receipt,” she said. “To tell you the truth, I was in such a hurry to get back that I didn’t wait for it.”
“Well, my dear,” said Mrs Shelf, “that is all right; I expect it will arrive on Monday. The cart won’t be here before then, for we’ve got our week’s supply of meat in. It came this morning.”
“Splendid,” thought Annie. “By Monday I shall be away.”
She almost skipped into her uncle’s study. The old man was better already. He was lying back in his chair, and was reading a paper which had come by the afternoon’s post.
“Ah, here you are, my love!” he said.
“Here I am, uncle. I am so glad I met Dr Brett; he has made you better already.”
“He has, child; he always does me good.” Annie drew a chair forward, and pushed her hair back from her forehead. The impatient look had left her face. It looked tranquil and at its best.
“By the way, child,” said Mr Brooke, “you will want me to write that letter for you.”
“You must not worry about it now, really, uncle,” said Annie, laying her hand on his.
“It will do quite well to-morrow—quite well,” she added. “You know that whatever your Annie is, she would do nothing to make you worse.”