Lying back in his bath-chair, he had been looking at the soft loveliness around him, thinking that such a sunset had more poetry and more beauty than the blaze of gold and crimson which, as a rule, presented itself when the sunset was not softened and veiled by clouds; and sharply defined against the evening sky he had seen a figure full of quiet grace, and before she drew near he recognised her, and thrilled with the recollection of the prayer she had breathed beside him.
There was no consciousness or shyness in her manner. She was glad to see him better, glad to meet him, and she put her hand into his outstretched towards her, with a feeling of relief and gladness. It would have been terrible had this powerful frame, this youth and strength, been crushed. His eyes rested upon her with intense satisfaction, he noted the straightforward open gaze, and the lovely smile that brought colour into her face. He had not dreamed it—she was lovely!
"I am so glad to see you out. You will soon get well," she said, and he thought her voice was as lovely as her face.
"You must let me thank you," he said earnestly. "You were so good and so brave. Most girls would have been too much frightened to help. Some would have fainted."
"I think not," she said, gravely, reddening a little under his earnest gaze. "I was too anxious to be of use to feel afraid. I think others would also have been anxious—others might have done more."
"Oh, no!" he said; "I am glad to have to be grateful to you. I have thought so much about it. I have so wished to know you."
"You have seen Mrs. Dorriman—you have seen Grace, my sister, I mean," correcting herself.
"Yes; her name was in the book you had. I thought it belonged to you."
"Mine is a very common name—Margaret."
"I know. I think it is a beautiful name; it is my mother's name."