Mr. Greswold was no bigot, his religion in no wise savoured of the over-good school; but he was a man of deep religious convictions; and he had been brought up to honour Sunday as a day set apart.
The Sunday parties and Sunday amusements of fashionable London were an abomination to him, though he was far too liberal-minded to wish to shut museums and picture-galleries against the people.
“Father,” said Lola, when they were alone, “I’m afraid you had your bad dream last night.”
Greswold looked at her curiously.
“No, love, my dreams were colourless, and have left not even a remembrance.”
“And yet you look sorrowful, just as you always look after your bad dream.”
“Your father is anxious about the cottagers who are ill, dearest,” said Mrs. Greswold. “That is all.”
“But you must not be unhappy about them, father dear. You don’t think that any of them will die, do you?” asked Lola, drawing very near him, and looking up at him with awe-stricken eyes.
“Indeed, my love, I hope not. They shall not die, if care can save them. I will walk round the village with Porter this afternoon, and find out all about the trouble. If there is anything that he cannot understand, we’ll have Dr. Hutchinson over from Southampton, or a physician from London if necessary. My people shall not be neglected.”
“May I go with you this afternoon, father?”