Lucy had no thought for anything but Arthur, and the subdued expression of his face, as kneeling by the sick woman’s bedside he said the prayers she had hungered for more than for the contents of Anna’s basket, which were now purloined by the children crouched upon the hearth and fighting over the last bit of gingerbread.
“Hush-sh, little one,” and Lucy’s hand rested on the head of the principal belligerent, who, awed by the beauty of her face and the authoritative tone of her voice, kept quiet till the prayer was over and Arthur had risen from his knees.
“Thank you, Lucy; I think I must constitute you my deaconess when Miss Ruthven is gone. Your very presence has a subduing effect upon the little savages. I never knew them so quiet before so long a time,” Arthur said to Lucy in a low tone, which, low as it was, reached Anna’s ear, but brought no pang of jealousy or sharp regret for what she felt was lost forever.
She was giving Lucy to Arthur Leighton, resolving that by every means in her power she would further her rival’s cause, and the hot tears which dropped so fast upon Mrs. Hobbs’s pillow while Arthur said the prayer were but the baptism of that vow, and not, as Lucy thought, because she felt so sorry for the suffering woman who had brought so much comfort to her.
“God bless you wherever you go,” she said, “and if there is any great good which you desire, may He bring it to pass.”
“He never will,—no, never,” was the sad response in Anna’s heart, as she joined the clergyman and Lucy, who were standing outside the door, the former pointing to the ruined slippers, and asking her how she ever expected to walk home in such dilapidated things.
“I shall certainly have to carry you,” he said, “or your blistered feet will evermore be thrust forward as a reason why you cannot be my deaconess.”
He seemed to be in unusual spirits that afternoon, and the party went gayly on, Anna keeping a watchful care over Lucy, picking out the smoothest places, and passing her arm round her waist as they were going up a hill.
“I think it would be better if you both leaned on me,” the rector said, offering each an arm, and apologizing for not having thought to do so before.
“I do not need it, thank you, but Miss Harcourt does. I fear she is very tired,” said Anna, pointing to Lucy’s face, which was so white and ghastly and so like the face seen once before in Venice, that without another word, Arthur took the tired girl in his strong arms and carried her safely to the summit of the hill.