“I am in no hurry,” he replied, “now that you tell me that all is well here. I am content to share in the happiness of my friend. His daughter well; a fine home; one could not hope for this two months ago! Poverty, death! Pish!” and he snapped his fingers contemptuously. “They are gone! It is indeed the age of miracles.”
“Coming back like she did, sir,” retorted Maria, “after everyone thought she was dead, ain’t a thing that does a body any good! You couldn’t expect her to be quite so happy and so sweet as she used to be, could you, Doctor?”
In the girl’s voice was so much of anxious inquiry, such a tone of real sadness and regret, that he turned to her alarmed, but at that moment Lola came into the room. In the few seconds it took her to cross to him, smiling, both hands extended in greeting, his practiced eye assured him that never in all his experience had he seen a young woman in such superb physical health. She was radiant! The simple little housedress in which he had first seen her had been exchanged for an elaborate afternoon costume. Her skin was clear, he had remembered her as being pale, even in the short time he had seen her before the accident; but now she had a high color and an eager, animated manner that spoke of an abundant reserve of vitality.
“There you are, Doctor,” she cried gaily, as he returned the warm pressure of her hands. “I wonder if you know how glad I am to see you?”
“No, my dear,” he answered, “not unless you are reflecting my own pleasure in seeing you like this. I was worrying about you, way off there in the West. Were you well? Were you happy? Now I have but to look at you.”
“You are a flatterer, Doctor.”
As Lola turned from him smiling, her eyes fell on Maria, who stood watching the Doctor’s face with a curious look of eager curiosity, her look changed, and she spoke sharply, almost cruelly.
“What are you doing here, Maria?”
Maria flushed and tears came to her eyes as she stammered, “I—I——”
“You may go.”