“Yes,” said Cicely laconically; “he is dying.”
Geneviève gave a little start. “How dreadful!” she exclaimed, feeling very glad that her cousin had not proposed her accompanying her all the way.
“It is very sad, but not dreadful,” replied Cicely gently. “And the worst of it is that in one sense it is hardly to be called sad. Life, so far as we can see, seems sadder than death to most of the poor little children at Notcotts, the people are so very poor and so very ignorant. Nobody ever took any interest in the place till Mr. Hayle came. He does his best, but a dozen Mr. Hayles could not do enough.”
“Does it belong to Sir Thomas?” asked Geneviève.
“No, I wish it did,” answered her cousin. “It belongs to two or three different owners, none of whom live near here, or take any interest in it. But, Geneviève, I think you must turn now; we have walked slowly, and mother may be wanting you. Good-bye, dear; thank you for coming so far.”
Geneviève left her. Cicely sat on the stile watching her for a minute or two. At a turn in the lane Geneviève looked round for an instant, kissing her hand in farewell.
“She seems quite happy again,” thought Cicely, “poor little Geneviève!”
She was lifting her basket and preparing to set off again, when happening to look round, she saw a figure coming quickly across a field at the side of the lane. It was Mr. Hayle. He hurried up to her.
“How good of you to come yourself, Miss Methvyn,” he exclaimed, quite out of breath with his haste. “I take for granted you are going to see that poor child at Notcotts. I hardly hoped you would be able to come yourself, but he will be delighted to see you again. And there is very little that can be done to please him now.”
“Is he worse?” asked Cicely.