"I would go anywhere where he goes," she answered simply. "It would cost me pain to leave you and papa, Richard; especially papa, because he is old, and because he would feel it; but Oliver is my husband."
Richard drummed for a minute or two on the table-cloth. Bessy sewed on her last button.
"Then where does Rane think of pitching his tent, Bessy?"
"Somewhere in London. He says there is no place like it for getting on. Should this letter be to say that Mr. Lynch, takes the practice, we shall be away in less than a month."
"And you have never told us!"
"We decided to say nothing until it was a settled thing, and then only to you, and Mrs. Cumberland, and papa. Oliver does not want the world to know it sooner than need be."
"But do you mean to say that Rane has not told his mother?" responded Richard to this in some surprise.
"Not yet," said Bessy, folding the completed waistcoat. "It will be sure to vex her, and perhaps needlessly; for, suppose, after all, we do not go? That entirely depends upon the disposal of the practice here."
Bessy was picking up the threads in her neat way, and putting the remaining buttons in the little closed box, when Dr. Rane was heard to enter his consulting-room. Away flew Bessy to the kitchen, bringing in the things with her own loving hands--and, for that matter, Molly Green was at her upstairs work--buttered toast, broiled ham, a dainty dish of stewed mushrooms. There was nothing she liked so much as to wait on her husband. Her step was light and soft, her eye bright. Richard, looking on, saw how much she cared for him.
Dr. Rane came in, wiping his brow: the day was hot, and he tired. He had walked from a farm-house a mile beyond the Ham. A strangely weary look sat on his face.