“A doctor!—no.”
“Was the porridge as you liked it this morning? I made it.”
“It was good enough.”
“Would you like more now?”
“No.”
“And to-morrow morning, will you have the same?”
“Yes—the same.”
“I will make it again. Aunt said the new cook did not understand how to mix and boil it to your liking.”
Coppinger nodded.
Judith remained standing and observing him. Some faces when touched by pain and sickness are softened and sweetened. The hand of suffering passes over the countenance and brushes away all that is frivolous, sordid, vulgar; it gives dignity, purity, refinement, and shows what the inner soul might be were it not entangled and degraded by base association and pursuit. It is different with other faces, the hand of suffering films away the assumed expression of good nature, honesty, straightforwardness, and unmasks the evil inner man. The touch of pain had not improved the expression of Cruel Coppinger. It cannot, however, with justice be said that the gentler aspect of the man, which Judith had at one time seen, was an assumption. He was a man in whom there was a certain element of good, but it was mixed up with headlong wilfulness, utter selfishness, and resolution to have his own way at any cost.