"True, Edina, but I am mending a little now."
"Why did you not send for me?"
"Nay, my dear, there was not any necessity for that."
A substantial tea-table had been spread, and in a very few minutes Edina was presiding at it; her travelling things off, her soft brown hair smoothed, her countenance wearing its usual cheerful gravity. Not a gravity that repelled: one that insensibly attracted, for it spoke of its owner's truth, and faith, and earnestness, of her goodwill to all about her. Sitting there, dispensing cups of tea to the doctor and Frank, she was ready to hear the news of all that had transpired in the village during her absence.
Almost the first item that greeted her was the stir about Josiah Bell, of which she had previously heard nothing. It had not subsided in the least, but rather increased: the man so long missing was now supposed to be lying at the bottom of the deep shaft. But the supposition could only be traced back to a very insecure source indeed: nothing more than a dream of Mr. Blase Pellet's.
"A dream!" exclaimed Edina, in the midst of her wonder.
"So Pellet says," replied Dr. Raynor.
"But, papa, can there be any foundation for it? I mean for the fact, not the dream."
"The very question we all asked when the rumour arose, Edina. At first it could not be traced to any source at all; there was the report, but whence it came seemed a mystery. At last, by dint of close and patient investigation, chiefly on the part of Float the publican, it was traced to Blase Pellet, and he said he had dreamt it."
"Then, after all, it has no real foundation," cried Edina.