“I shall confess nothing of the kind,” he assured her.
“Those are your civilities, sir—I know what they are worth, and I am not misled. I expect I have been a great care to you;” she smiled up brightly into his face. “But now that I am going away you must forgive me, you really must; for I want to feel that I am leaving only friends behind.”
Imperceptibly the doctor had edged her toward the door while she spoke, and through the door, and out on to the porch; and now she was standing at the head of the steps leading down to the path where Sam West waited at the horses' heads. She turned with a little smothered cry of dismay to throw her arms about Virginia for the last time.
“Be good to him!” she whispered. “Oh, I know you will!” she added in the same breath, and then the doctor urged her gently down the steps. From the door of the carriage she turned again, quite tremulous in her grief; but Virginia had disappeared, and there was only Jane and Benson.
“Good-bye!” cried Anna, “good-bye, and God bless you all!”
“Good-bye!” they called back, and then the doctor pushing his brother before him, mounted stiffly to his seat and closed the door; Sam touched his horses lightly with his whip, and the carriage rolled down the lane, and was soon out of sight on its road to Benson.
“They are gone!” said the lawyer at last, withdrawing his eyes from the spot where the carriage had last been visible through the trees that overhung the road. “We Americans are becoming a dreadfully diffuse people.”
Jane looked at him inquiringly.
“He must be a very good man to do all he does do for people who don't appreciate it,” she suggested.
“He is!” said the lawyer. “No one but a very good man would risk being so excessively unpleasant.”