"Indeed, I will; I thought she might stay the more willingly if I were with her."
"I'm sure of it," Father Honoré said heartily.
"Are you going in now?"
"Yes."
"Well, please tell Ellen that if Mrs. Googe wants me, she is to come up at once to tell me. Good morning."
She walked rapidly down the road beside the house. Father Honoré turned to look after her. How many, many lives there were like that!—unselfish, sacrificing, loving, helpful, yet unknown, unthought of. He watched the slight figure, the shoulders bowed already a little, but the step still firm and light, till it passed from sight. Then he entered the kitchen and encountered Mrs. Caukins.
"I never was so glad to see any living soul as I am you, Father Honoré," was her greeting; she looked up from the lemon she was squeezing; "I don't dare to leave her till she gets a regular nurse. It's enough to break your heart to see her lying there staring straight before her and not saying a word—not even to the doctor. I told the Colonel when he was here a little while ago that I couldn't stand it much longer; it's getting on my nerves—if she'd only say something, I don't care what!"
She paused in concocting the lemonade to wipe her eyes on a corner of her apron.
"Mrs. Caukins, I wish you would say to Mrs. Googe that I am here and would like to speak with her before I leave town this afternoon. You might say I expect to be away for a few days and it is necessary that I should see her now."
"You don't mean to say you're going to leave us right in the lurch, 'fore we know anything about Champney!—Why, what will the Colonel do without you? You've been his right hand man. He's all broken up; that one night's work nearly killed him, and he hasn't seemed himself since—"