Mr. Lambert had often surprised her with his eccentricities, but never so much as now. He was lying dressed in a suit of white duck, on a luxurious lounge, his face almost as colorless as his dress, and altogether so changed that she felt a disposition to scream. He held out his hand, saying in a most polished manner, "You must excuse me, my friend, for not rising. I am quite reduced by illness."
Trying not to show her surprise, Marion cordially seized his hand and drew a chair close to his side.
"I'm so sorry I didn't know it before; I'm a very good nurse, and you must let me try my skill on you."
His chin began to twitch with his efforts at self-control, so she added at once, hoping to change the current of his thoughts, "We've been such good friends that I know you will be glad to hear some news about me from myself. I'm going to change my name soon." Her cheeks, dyed with blushes, explained her meaning.
"Is it to that bow-legged donkey you've pledged yourself," he shouted, starting from his pillow. "If it is, I protest!"
"No, indeed, it is not he," she laughed, understanding to whom he referred, as he had warned her against him. "My friend is a clergyman, a real, working Christian. I must tell you how I first met him."
She related the incident of selling him the gloves, at which he laughed heartily, and when she went on to tell what Mr. Angus wished to do for his people, he caught her hand and gave it a hearty shake, saying, "He's the kind. I'll consent to that."
"You must treat me as you would a daughter," she said, putting her hand on his forehead, "and tell me when you're tired of hearing me talk. Don't you like to hear reading?"
"Sing," he said, "sing something lively."
She sang several secular songs, and then one beginning,