Chapter XXVI: Interrupted

RUTH and Mary sprang up and tried to compose their countenances as well as they could in the moment's pause while the gentlemen hung up their hats.

But the two doctors were so intent on the little patient, and on all they had to hear, that they hardly noticed anything amiss. If Arthur thought Mary had been crying, he concluded that it was in sympathy with the touching particulars of the child's recovery.

So Ruth had to tell it all over again from the beginning, and great was the rejoicing at every detail of the news.

At length Arthur said to Ruth, "Do you think he should remain at Sandy Cove, or come home now?"

Ruth looked at her father, but as he did not speak she answered slowly, "I had thought—"

"Well? Do tell us!" said Arthur.

"I had thought that we had better remain another week, and perhaps by that time, he will have got used to speaking to us. I think it would be a pity to disturb the present associations till he has confidence in himself. Is that what you think?" she asked, looking from one doctor to the other.

"It is a pity you are not in the profession!" smiled her father. But he got up and kissed her forehead. "That was only my fun! You have a wonderfully wise little head, my dear!"

So the doctors went off, and Ruth, with rather a sorrowful face, turned to Mary.

"I am going up to The Firs to fetch a few things," she said, "so I must wish you good-bye."

"Will you not return to lunch, or tea, Ruth? You are not going to leave me—like this?"

Ruth coloured deeply. "I think I shall go home first, dear Mary, and if I have time, I will run in about half-past three o'clock, just before my train."

Mary was obliged to let her go, and Ruth walked back to the station and took a fly. She felt as if she could not drag herself up those long hills to-day.

Dr. Brown had told the servants to expect her, so she found a welcome. And after talking to cook for a little while, she sat down to her solitary lunch.

It was only just over when the cook sent up word that she would like to speak to her.

"Miss Ruth!" she said, when Ruth had sent for her. "Do you think master would let me come down to Sandy Cove and stay with you till you come home? I could cook for you, and I'm sure you look quite over-done with it all! It's a lot to see to, and then it isn't as if you understood how to do things yet! How should you? In another year or two, you will know a lot more things. 'Do' let me, dear Miss Ruth!"

Ruth was very near bursting into tears. "But my father?" she said. "He would be uncomfortable."

"Oh, no, miss! The parlourmaid says she can manage beautifully, and there's my sister—James's wife, you know—at the cottage. She says she'll run in of a morning and look round—I've been to see her to ask her to do so after I'd sent in your lunch."

"Oh, cook, it would be the greatest comfort!"

"Then if master agrees—you might telephone to him, couldn't you, Miss Ruth?" she added coaxingly.

So Ruth telephoned, and Dr. Brown acquiesced at once, only thankful that some relief had come to what he saw was too great an undertaking for his little daughter.

It was past three o'clock before Ruth, with cook and her little box, took their seats in the fly to go down to the station. They would have half an hour to spare in which cook would do a little shopping, and Ruth repaired to Riverside with beating heart, hardly knowing how she could bear to meet Mary again that day.

But Mary was one who set a thing right at once if it were possible. The moment Ruth entered, she ran to her with out-stretched hands.

"Dear Ruth!" she said lovingly. "You caught me at an unlucky moment this morning. I had not had time to recover my disappointment or I should not have blamed you as I did. In fact, I had no business to blame you! Will you forgive me?"

Ruth kissed her warmly, but though she tried she could not get out a word.

"The tea is ready, have you time for a cup?" asked Mary.

"Thank you," said Ruth, "I think I have. If I leave here at five minutes to four—"

Mary saw that she was not ready for any private talk. The same set look was in her face, and though she spoke of Norman and of Mary's interests, Vincent's name was never mentioned.

"We are coming back in a week, I hope," she said as she rose to go.

"Oh, I am glad. I have missed you terribly."

"And so I have you!" exclaimed Ruth. "Oh, Mary! Do not cast me off because of this!"

"Cast you off! Is it likely?"

And then Ruth went.

And Mary sat down and cried as she had not cried for years. Thus Arthur found her on his return from his patients.

"My poor Mary!" he said, after he had drawn out the whole story from her. "It is a very bad bit for you to go through, but do not forget the Anchor!"

"The anchor?" asked Mary, leaning her head on his shoulder and feeling inexpressibly comforted by his sympathetic, hopeful tone.

"Yes; the anchor which used to comfort me in the years when I was not sure whether I should ever get a certain little Mary!"

"Oh! And what was it, Arthur. Perhaps it will do me good—and Vincent—"

"The anchor was this:

"'My times are in Thy hand.'

"There I rested, and the anchor held fast even in the storm! Write to Vincent, and tell him from me that there's nothing like 'committing our way' to God to find it 'brought to pass'!"