The voice was quick and nervous, and the young surgeon hurried to the open window. “What can I do for you, Miss Rolfe?”
“Ask your friend to wait one moment,” said she, as she hastily tied her bonnet-strings; “I want to go to Taylor’s.” And running to a little closet, she drew forth a shawl.
The doctor had hardly had time to deliver the message before Mary was on the piazza. “Can you give me a seat in your wagon?”
“Certainly,” said the surgeon, lifting his cap.
He was proud to have so pretty a woman grace his equipage, and he looked forward to a pleasant chat along the road; but he soon discovered that, though she made an effort to appear interested, she did not hear what he said. And so he gave over his effort to entertain her, and they drove forward in a silence that was hardly broken till the driver turned out of the Port Republic Road.
“Are we almost there?”
“It is less than a mile from here. We shall be there in a few minutes.”
She gave a slight shiver.
“Have you any friends there, among the wounded?”
“Yes—no—that is, he is not exactly a friend of mine. He is a friend of some very dear friends of mine, who would like to know how he is.”