“And does my Lord feel better after—after his excitement to-day?” she asked.
“Dorothy, you have made me a whole man again. I could walk to Windsor and back.”
“You must have your dinner, or your supper first, sir,” she answered gayly, “and do you rest quiet until I come back to feed you. Oh, Richard dear,” she cried, “how delightful that you should be the helpless one, and dependent on me!”
As I lay listening for the rustle of her gown, the minutes dragged eternally. Every word and gesture of the morning passed before my mind, and the touch of her lips still burned on my forehead. At last, when I was getting fairly restless, the distant tones of a voice, deep and reverberating, smote upon my ear, jarring painfully some long-forgotten chord. That voice belonged to but one man alive, and yet I could not name him. Even as I strained, the tones drew nearer, and they were mixed with sweeter ones I knew well, and Dorothy's mother's voice. Whilst I was still searching, the door opened, the voices fell calm, and Dorothy came in bearing a candle in each hand. As she set them down on the table, I saw an agitation in her face, which she strove to hide as she addressed me.
“Will you see a visitor, Richard?”
“A visitor!” I repeated, with misgiving. 'Twas not so she had announced Comyn.
“Will you see Mr. Allen?”—
“Mr. Allen, who was the rector of St. Anne's? Mr. Allen in London, and here?”
“Yes.” Her breath seemed to catch at the word. “He says he must see you, dear, and will not be denied. How he discovered you were with us I know not.”
“See him!” I cried. “And I had but the half of my strength I would fling him downstairs, and into the kennel. Will you tell him so for me, Dorothy?”