"Yes, my dear; I know that. God bless you!" said the doctor.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Blundell," said Sarah, softly.
The deep voice which came from the full, white chest, and which had once been so unmanageable, was one of Sarah's surest weapons now.
When she sang, she counted her victims by the dozen; when she lowered it, as she lowered it now, to speak only to one man, every note went straight to his heart—if he had an ear for music and a heart for love.
When Sarah said, in these dulcet tones, therefore, that she was sorry for her old friend, the tears gathered to the doctor's kind, tired eyes.
"For me!" he said gratefully. "Oh, you mustn't be sorry for me. She—she could hardly be further out of my reach, you know, if she were—an angel in heaven, instead of being what she is—an angel on earth. It is—of her that I was thinking."
"I know," said Sarah; "but she has been looking so bright and hopeful, ever since we heard Peter was coming home—until to-day—when he has actually come; and that is what puzzles me."
"To-day—to-day!" said the doctor, as though to himself. "Yes; it was to-day I saw her touch happiness timidly, and come face to face with disappointment."
"You saw her?"
"Oh, when one loves," he said bitterly, "one has intuitions which serve as well as eyes and ears. You will know all about it one day, little Sarah."