'You have no ribbons or flowers, but perhaps after all it will not be noticed,' she said, with pardonable egotism.
'No, he will have only eyes for you to-night. Come, Polly, I am ready;' and as the girl turned coy and seemed disposed to linger, Mildred quietly turned to the door.
'I thought I was to be dismissed without your saying good-night to me,' was Dr. Heriot's greeting as he advanced to meet them. He was holding Mildred's cold hand tightly, but his eyes rested on Polly's downcast face as he spoke.
'We ought to have come before, but I knew you would understand.'
'Yes, I understand,' he returned, with an expression of proud tenderness. 'You will give your child to me, Miss Lambert?'
'She has always seemed to belong to you more than to me,' and then she looked up at him for a moment with her old beautiful smile. 'I need not ask you to be good to her—you are good to every one; but she is so young, little more than a child.'
'You may trust me,' he returned, putting his arm gently round the young girl's shoulders; 'there shall not a hair of her head suffer harm if I can prevent it. Polly is not afraid of me, is she?'
'No,' replied Polly, shyly; but the bright eyes lifted themselves with difficulty.
She looked after him with a sort of perplexed pride, half-conscious, half-confused, as he released her and bade them all good-night. When he was gone she hovered round Mildred in the old childish way and seemed unwilling to leave her.
'I have done the right thing. Bless her sweet face. I know I shall make her happy,' thought Dr. Heriot as he walked with rapid strides across the market-place; 'a man cannot love twice in his life as I loved my Margaret, but the peaceful affection such as I can give my darling will satisfy her I know. If only Philip could see into my heart to-night I think he would be comforted for his motherless child.' And then again—'How sweetly Mildred Lambert looked at me to-night; she is a good woman, there are few like her. Her face reminded me of some Madonna I have seen in a foreign gallery as she stood with the girl clinging to her. I wonder she has never married; these ministering women lead lonely lives sometimes. Sometimes I have fancied she knew what it is to love, and suffered. I thought so yesterday and again to-day, there was such a ring of sadness in her voice. Perhaps he died, but one cannot tell—women never reveal these things.'