“Yes, John,” replied Milly, blushing in spite of—nay, rather more in consequence of—her efforts not to do so. “I spoke to her some days ago. Indeed, soon after the accident, when we were sure you were going to get well. And she did not disapprove.”
“Ay, but have you spoken since she has seen me—since this morning?”
“Yes, John.”
“And she is still of the same mind—not shocked or shaken by my appearance?”
“She is still of the same mind,” returned Milly; “and not shocked in the least. My darling mother is far too wise to be shocked by trifles—I—I mean by scratches and bruises. She judges of people by their hearts.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Milly, for I have something shocking to tell her about myself, that will surprise her, if it does nothing else.”
“Indeed!” said Milly, with the slightest possible rise of her pretty eyebrows.
“Yes. You have heard from your mother about that young rascal who ran into her with his bicycle in London some time ago?”
“Yes; she wrote to me about it,” replied Milly, with an amused smile. “You mean, I suppose, the reckless youth who, after running her down, had the cowardice to run away and leave her lying flat on the pavement? Mother has more than once written about that event with indignation, and rightly, I think. But how came you to know about it, John?”
“Milly,” said Barret, holding her hand very tight, and speaking solemnly, “I am that cowardly man!”