thanked you for the books. She told me how you had gotten them for me.'
'She should not have said anything about them; it was Augustus who thought of them,' said Madeline.
'Marian comes to me four or five times a day,' he continued; 'I do not know what I should do without her.'
'I hope she is not noisy,' said Madeline.
'Laws, miss, he don't care for noise now, only he aint good at moving yet, and won't be for some while.'
'Pray take care of yourself, Mr. Graham,' she said; 'I need not tell you how anxious we all are for your recovery. Good night, Mr. Graham.' And then she passed on to her mother's dressing-room, and sitting herself down in an arm-chair opposite to the fire began to think—to think, or else to try to think.
And what was to be the subject of her thoughts? Regarding Peregrine Orme there was very little room for thinking. He had made her an offer, and she had rejected it as a matter of course, seeing that she did not love him. She had no doubt on that head, and was well aware that she could never accept such an offer. On what subject then was it necessary that she should think?
How odd it was that Mr. Graham's room door should have been open on this especial evening, and that nurse should have been standing there, ready to give occasion for that conversation! That was the idea that first took possession of her brain. And then she recounted all those few words which had been spoken as though they had had some special value—as though each word had been laden with interest. She felt half ashamed of what she had done in standing there and speaking at his bedroom door, and yet she would not have lost the chance for worlds. There had been nothing in what had passed between her and the invalid. The very words, spoken elsewhere, or in the presence of her mother and sister, would have been insipid and valueless; and yet she sat there feeding on them as though they were of flavour so rich that she could not let the sweetness of them pass from her. She had been stunned at the idea of poor Peregrine's love, and yet she never asked herself what was this new feeling. She did not inquire—not yet at least—whether there might be danger in such feelings.
She remained there, with eyes fixed on the burning coals, till her mother came up, 'What, Madeline,' said Lady Staveley, 'are you here still? I was in hopes you would have been in bed before this.'
'My headache is gone now, mamma; and I waited because—'
'Well, dear; because what?' and her mother came and stood over her and smoothed her hair. 'I know very well that something has been the matter. There has been something; eh, Madeline?'
'Yes, mamma.'
