“If God wills,” returned Jeff, softly; “I am in His hands, and willing to be what He chooses. You remember, David, the talk we once had about Miss Millet’s argument, that God brings good out of evil. I didn’t believe it then; I believe it now. I’ve bin to school since I last saw you, David, and I’ve learned a good lesson, for I can say from my heart it has been good for me that I was afflicted.”
Bowers did not reply, but looked at his friend with an expression of puzzled surprise.
“Yes,” continued Jeff, with rising enthusiasm; “I have lost my health—the doctor thinks permanently. I’ve lost the strength that I used to be so proud of, and with it the hope of being able to make a living in any active line of life; and I’ve lost much more besides. But what I have found in my Saviour far more than makes up for it all.”
In the “much more besides,” poor Jeff mentally referred to his loss of all hope of ever gaining the hand of Rose Millet; for if his chance seemed small before, how immeasurably was it reduced now that his health was shattered, and his power even of supporting himself gone. No; he felt that that door was closed—that he must avoid the girl as much as possible in future; and, above all, be particularly careful not to fall in love with her. Of course, it was only a passing fancy as yet, and, like fruit, would never ripen unless the sun shone. He would avoid the sunshine! Meanwhile, of all these rapidly fleeting thoughts, he said never a word to his friend David Bowers, but after a little more conversation, begged him also to go away and let him rest.
All very good, friend Jeff; but what if the sun should shine in spite of you?
Just about that time, in the course of his eager and somewhat erratic wanderings among solicitors and other men of business, Captain Millet made a sudden pause, and, by way of taking breath, rushed down to Folkestone, brought Rose up to Cranby, hired a dog-cart, and drove along the sands at low tide, in the direction of his sister’s cottage.
“I think it probable that you may see him today, Rosebud,” he said, “though I’m not quite sure, for the doctor is afraid of a relapse, and friends are not yet allowed to visit him. To be sure bein’ only a little girl, you probably wouldn’t disturb him at all—’specially if you didn’t speak. Anyhow, you’ll see auntie, which will be more to the purpose.”
“Father,” said Rose, whose name seemed remarkably appropriate at that moment, “I should like to get down here, and walk the rest of the way. By the time I arrive, you’ll have had a little talk with poor Jeff and auntie. Besides, there is a pretty cave that I used to gather shells in when I was last here. I would like so much to pay it a visit in passing.”
Of course the captain had no objection, and thus it came to pass that Jeff’s fourth visitor on that unquiet morning was the Rosebud!
How feeble are written words to convey ideas at times! If you could have obtained one glance of Rose and Jeff at that moment, reader, words would not be required. No peony ever blushed like that Rose—to say nothing of the blank amazement in those wide blue eyes. Jeff, still seated on the rock, became petrified.