Nelly was Miss Hunt now, for Bertha had gone away from her into the other, unknown country, and Nelly’s grief had made her gentle heart yet more gentle, and her helpful spirit yet more helpful.
Toward night, one summer day, she had gone to see an old woman who had been her nurse once, and had found her very ill,—quite too ill to be left alone, and certainly in need of a physician. So Nelly tore a leaf from her memorandum-book and wrote on it a few lines, begging Dr. Greene to come at once, and then called to the first passer-by and entreated him to take it to the doctor.
It was scarcely half an hour before Dr. Greene came in, quietly and gravely. He attended to his patient with that careful consideration which made all those poor souls whom he visited adore him. Then he turned to Nelly.
“Who will stay with her to-night?” he asked; “for, indeed, she hardly ought to be left alone.”
“I shall stay,” was the quiet answer.
“Then come to the door with me, please, and let me give you your directions.”
Nelly followed, and stood there, in the soft summer dusk,—a pretty picture, with the wild-rose flush dawning in her cheeks, and a new light kindling her eyes. She listened carefully to all his injunctions, and then turned as if to go. But he put out a hand to detain her.
“How very much I owe to you!” he said.
“You, how?” And a deep, deep crimson dyed Nelly’s face and throat. In that moment she thought of her “bumptious” valentine, which had not crossed her mind before for a long time.
He looked at her with a smile in his eyes, but with a face that preserved all its respectful gravity. He took a red leather case out of his pocket, and from the case he took the very old valentine which Nelly remembered so well. Then he produced the brief note she had written that afternoon; and still there was light enough left in the day to see them by, as he held them side by side.