“My little boy is looking out of the window for me, waiting for me; he has been by himself all day,” I sobbed.
“Ah! I am so sorry you have had this annoyance and detention. I wish I had boarded the car earlier; you should have gone on if I had. I was outside talking with some friends, and I did not jump on the train until she was about to move off, but I can telegraph to your friends, and you can go on to-morrow.”
The ride in the open air had revived me, and I found now that I could sit up without fainting.
“You were going to Baltimore to-night,” I said. “I am putting you to so much trouble.”
“None at all. And if you were”—with a tremor in his voice—“I should be glad of it. Can you sit up? Ah! I am so glad you are better. When I first took you into this carriage I was afraid I would have to stop with you at the first doctor’s office. We are nearly home now.”
“You are very good,” I said, still too weak not to speak with tears in my voice.
“I am fortunate—but too much at your expense, I am afraid. You forget how large my debt is. I shall never forget the old days in Norfolk and the kindness that was shown me by you and yours. I owe you a great deal, Mrs. Norman, as yourself and as your father’s daughter. I shall never forget his charming hospitality. I am sorry you can’t go on to Baltimore, but I am glad of my opportunity.”
“That is a nice way to put it, commodore.”
“A true way to put it, Mrs. Norman. Please don’t be too sorry. Where is Nell?—Mrs. Grey, I suppose I should say. I can’t think of the saucy little fairy who used to sit on my knee as a madam.”
“I don’t know just where Nell is, or how. The fortunes of war have separated me from her, and mother as well.”