"Simply because I haven't! That's all!"
"Mary,"—he said, seriously—"You know I was not your 'father's friend'! You know I never saw your father!"
The smile still lingered in her eyes.
"Yes—I know that!"
"And yet you never ask me to give an account of myself!"
She thought he was worrying his mind needlessly, and bending over him took his hand in hers.
"No, David, I never ask impertinent questions!" she said—"I don't want to know anything more about you than you choose to tell. You seem to me like my dear father—not quite so strong as he was, perhaps—but I have taken care of you for so many weeks, that I almost feel as if you belonged to me! And I want to take care of you still, because I know you must be taken care of. And I'm so well accustomed to you now that I shouldn't like to lose you, David—I shouldn't really! Because you've been so patient and gentle and grateful for the little I have been able to do for you, that I've got fond of you, David! Yes!—actually fond of you! What do you say to that?"
"Say to it!" he murmured, pressing the hand he held. "I don't know what to say to it, Mary!—except—God bless you!"
She was silent a minute—then she went on in a cheerfully rallying tone—
"So I don't want to know anything about you, you see! Now, as to Mr. Reay——"