She was not deceiving herself when she said she was content. But she must have forgotten—being foolish—one night on which Doctor Fleming came in to see her. For her cheeks were flushed, and there were traces of tears upon them, as he could see clearly when the light was brought in. She might have causes for anxiety or sorrow, of which he knew nothing. But he would have liked to know what had brought the tears to-night, because he, or rather Mr Rainy, had something to say to her, and he at least was doubtful how she might receive it.
Was he doubtful? Hardly that. But he was quite sure that what was to be said, and all which might follow, would be a trouble to Allison, and the saying of it might be put off, if she had any other trouble to bear.
“Are you rested?” said he. “Are you quite strong and well again?”
“Yes, I am quite well and strong.”
“And cheerful? And hopeful?”
“Surely,” said Allison, looking at him in surprise.
“Oh! I see what you are thinking. But it is only that I had a letter to-night. No, it brought no ill news. It is from—my Marjorie. I don’t know—I canna tell why it should—”
“Why it should have made the tears come, you would say. Well, never mind. I am not going to ask. You are much better and stronger than you were, I am glad to say.”
“Yes, I am quite well and cheerful,—only—”
But a knock came to the door, and Allison rose to open it.