“That is little likely,” said she.
“He thinks much of you, and ye ken it well.”
“Does he? It must be because he thinks I am kind to all the poor folk yonder—not because he thinks me wise,” added she with a smile.
“As to wisdom,—that’s neither here nor there in this matter. I am going hame to my ain house. That’s decided, whatever may be said by any doctor o’ them a’. As for life and death—they are no’ in the doctors’ hands, though they whiles seem to think it. I’m going hame, whether it be to live or to die. But I want no vexation about it; I’m no’ able to wrangle with them. But if you were to speak to Doctor Fleming—if you were to tell him that you are willing to go with me—to do your best for me, he would make no words about it, but just let me go.”
Allison’s colour changed, but she stood still and said quietly:
“Do you think Doctor Fleming is a man like that? And don’t you think he will be only too glad to send you home when you are able for the journey? Your wisest way will be to trust it all to him.”
“At least you will say nothing against it?”
“I shall have nothing to say about it—nothing.” She spoke calmly and was quite unmoved, as far as he could see. But she was afraid. She was saying in her heart that her time was coming. Beyond the day! Surely she must look beyond the day. But not now. Not this moment. Even in her dismay she thought of him, and “pitied” him, as he had said.
“You are wearing yourself out,” said she gently. “The doctor will not think well of what you have to say, if you are tired and feverish. Lie quiet, and rest till he come.”
He did not answer her except with his eager appealing eyes, which she would not meet. She sat by the window sewing steadily on, till the doctor’s step came to the door.