fellows, with a suspicion of green in them or a tendency to blue. What a relief—heaven, what a relief!—when Madge, kind Madge, brought in her canary-bird for the amusement of the patient, who was to be sure and ring the bell—the rope rested on his pillow—if Dicky became too noisy or troublesome. What a temptation for a sick man: ringing would certainly bring Madge back—not ringing—he had her pet-bird to contemplate, with yet the sure prospect of its mistress coming to fetch it in the course of a short time. He determined to wait and make what he could of the bird, still looking forward to another glimpse of kind Madge very soon.
The bird was inclined to be shrill sometimes, undoubtedly. There was a very ear-piercing quality about his note. Yet what a change and a relief to hear his glad, careless, triumphant fiorituri—to see him spring from perch to perch—sometimes a soft warm yellow ball, anon his plumage bristling out spread fan-wise in the air,—now sharpening his beak upon his sugar like a knife upon a steel; now tossing his rape-seed over his head like a conjuror playing with his cups and balls! It was a great comfort to the invalid to watch the bird, and the bird exhausted was there not the cage to turn to? its reticulations to count and examine, with the view of detecting crooked wires or uneven spaces?
It was known in Grilling Abbots that Mr. Wilford Hadfield was a visitor at Dr. Fuller's cottage. But the circumstances of the case carried explanation with them, and the fact was little commented on. Disinherited and dangerously ill it was not unnatural that Mr. Wilford should seek aid at the hands of his old friend the doctor, and Grilling Abbots had no objection to make to such a proceeding.
For many weeks was the sick man a prisoner in the spare room. When first he entered it the snow of winter mantled the ground: when he was able first to quit it there was the glory of the early spring abroad. The month that comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb was on the wane. The March winds had dried up the country soaked by the February rains. At sunrise swarms of rooks swept across the skies seeking their morning meal, battling with the breeze and circling and tacking to avoid it till they looked like leaves eddying at the fall. There was some warmth in the sunrays now, and the languor of coming summer in the air. The woods and lanes were scented with the buds. The hedges were losing their black, skeleton look; they were now purple and gold with renovated blossoms. The honeysuckle on the porch was already in leaf; the firs and alders were in flower, and green tufts, crimson-pointed, decked the larch. Time, which thus brought beauty to the year, carried convalesence to the sick chamber in Mr. Fuller's cottage. Be sure the early offerings of spring-time adorned the room and solaced the wearied eyes of the sufferer. Be sure Madge hurried to place in his wasted hands the first violets she could gather; how she had hunted under the fallen tree-trunks in the park—under the moss-coated palings, how she had wet her feet and soiled her dress in her search! Yet she returned triumphant, with quite a bouquet—with snow-drops, too, and a first primrose—while placid Vi had joined in the quest, adding a pansy-bud gathered with some effort from the sunny top of the garden-wall. The doctor's daughters had toiled heart and soul for their father's patient. Much of his history they did not know, but it was enough for them that Wilford Hadfield was now poor and suffering—all the care and tenderness of their pure kind hearts was his again and again.
"Do you know, Vi," confessed Madge, "I was quite frightened at him when he first came. I thought him so grim and fierce-looking. I did not dare to say a word to him. But I've quite got over that now."
"There wasn't much to be frightened at, Madge."
"No, indeed, not, and he so sick and weak. Poor creature! I never saw any one look so bad as he did. I've become now quite accustomed to him. I begin to think he's quite handsome."
"Better-looking than Stephen, even?"
Madge mused, while Violet contemplated her rather closely it would seem.
"Yes, I think even handsomer than Stephen."
"Yet he's very worn and wasted, Madge; he looks much older than he really is, and how hollow his eyes are!"
"But they're no longer wild and savage now. When I took him those flowers he hardly said anything, but do you know, Vi, I think there were almost tears in his eyes. I think, Vi, you gave me the idea of gathering those flowers for him."
"No, Madge, indeed I did not." And Miss Violet turned away, perhaps to conceal a blush that was rising in her cheek. Heaven knows why.
He was very weak still, but on fine days he was able to leave his bed and sit at the window of the spare room looking into the garden.
"My nurses," he said, smiling faintly as he observed Vi and Madge below.
"Yes," said Mr. Fuller, "your old playfellows, years ago, Wilford. It seems a long while, now, since you were romping on the grass-plot with little Violet and baby Madge with the red locks. There have been changes since then."
"There have indeed." And the convalescent covered his eyes with his thin hands.
"Shall I read to you?" said the doctor, "or shall I send up Vi to read to you? I think she's a better hand at it than I am."
"No," answered Wilford, after a pause, "I'm busy—thinking," he added, with a smile.
"Yes," and the doctor patted him gently on the shoulder, "and that's the very thing I don't want you to do. Your body is not strong enough for you to be using your mind yet. You mustn't think—unless it be of the future—of getting well. Not of the past." And the doctor quitted him.
"No, not of the past,—not of that," said Wilford with a shudder.
He took listlessly a book, one of a pile on the table. He opened it mechanically at the title-page. His eye fell upon the name written on the fly-leaf—"Violet Fuller." He stopped at this with his eyes fixed upon the writing, and twice he