“Yes,” said the doctor to himself, “there is Allison Bain!”
Then he rose and moved about the room. He, too, had something to say of Allison Bain—something which it would be a pain for the sick man to hear, but which must be said, and there might come no better time for saying it than this. And yet he shrunk from the task. He paused by the window and took out his watch.
“Mistress Allison,” said he, speaking, as was his way when addressing her, with the utmost gentleness and respect, “I have half an hour at my disposal to-day. Go your ways down to the sands, and breathe the fresh air while I am here. The days are too short to put it off later, and you need the change.”
“Yes, I will go,” said Allison.
“And do not return to-night, neither here nor to the long ward. Mind, I say you must not.”
As her hand was on the latch Brownrig called her name. When she came and stood beside the bed he looked at her, but did not speak.
“Were you needing anything?” she asked, gently.
“No. Oh! no, only just to see your face. You’ll come early in the morning?”
“Yes, I will come early.”
But as she moved away there came into her eyes a look as of some frightened woodland creature, hemmed in and eager to escape. There was silence for a moment, and just as the doctor was about to speak, Brownrig said: