"I do; but low fever reduces a man greatly. When are you going to leave off the 'Sir?' 'Sir Harry' is worse than 'Mr. Chandos' was."
"But what can I call you?"
"I was christened Harry."
"I shall learn it in time," I answered, shyly, "through hearing the others say it."
"Anne, do you know what poor George said the last night of his life?" he asked, after a pause.
"No. Was it about me?"
"It was about you: when you were the little thing he met at Hallam. He said you were a sweet, loveable child: truthful, honest, and good. I think you are the same still."
I bent my blushing face: praises were so sweet from him. Sir Harry suddenly clasped me to him with a deep sound—quite a cry of love; and I had to kneel down afterwards and hunt for my needle.
A few mornings subsequent to this, the post brought a packet addressed to Sir Harry Chandos. When I saw it was Mr. Edwin Barley's handwriting, my heart failed me. Sir Harry read it twice over; glanced at me, and put it in his pocket. Monsieur de Mellissie was considerably better; the change of air and scene had almost restored him. He did not yet get up to breakfast. I, Emily, and her brother took it alone. Plans had been under discussion for some days. Sir Harry's marriage was already talked of openly.
"Mamma says it will be Scarborough," observed Emily, following out the train of thought she had been pursuing while Sir Harry read his letter. "She shall go there for a month, and get to Heneage Grange for Christmas. Ethel goes with her of course, and so shall I. Alfred also; she has been inviting him. And you, Anne—where do you go?"