“I think I owed you that,” she said, with a little sob, and then ran away in good earnest, never turning her head until she was safe within the drawing-room.
Martin, his brain in a whirl and his blood on fire, closed the gate for himself. When the vicar came, half an hour later, his daughter was busy over the same book.
“What, Elsie! None of the maids home yet?” he cried.
“No, father, dear. But Martin Bolland brought these.”
“Oh, our handkerchiefs. What did he say?”
“Nothing—of any importance. I understood that Dr. MacGregor caused the linen to be washed, but forgot to ask him why.”
“Is that all?”
“Practically all, except that his arms and hands are all bound up, so I went with him as far as the gate. It is stiff, you know. And—yes—he has been reading ‘Rokeby.’ He likes it.”
The vicar filled his pipe. He had had a trying day.
“Martin is a fine lad,” he said. “I hope John Bolland will see fit to educate him. Such a youngster should not be allowed to vegetate in a village like this.”