‘You are sufficiently yourself to remain alone for a few minutes,’ she said, stood up, and left the room. She had the management of the house, and, indeed, of the farm on her hands; her usual assistant in setting the labourers their work, old Christopher Davy, was ill with rheumatism. This affair had happened at an untoward moment, but is it not always so? A full hour had elapsed before Miss Jordan returned. Then she saw that the convalescent’s eyes were closed. He was probably again asleep, and sleep was the best thing for him. She reseated herself by his bedside, and resumed her knitting. A moment after she was again aware that his eyes were on her. She had herself watched him so intently whilst he was asleep that a smile came involuntarily to her lips. She was being repaid in her own coin. The smile encouraged him to speak.
‘How long have I been here?’
‘Four days.’
‘Have I been very ill?’
‘Yes, insensible, sometimes rambling.’
‘What made me ill? What ails my head?’ He put his hand to the bandages.
‘You have had a fall from your horse.’
He did not speak for a moment or two. His thoughts moved slowly. After a while he asked, ‘Where did I fall?’
‘On the moor—Morwell Down.’
‘I can remember nothing. When was it?’