But Lawrence’s mind dwelt not at all on these ameliorating circumstances; it dwelt only upon the fact that he was in one house and Miss March was in another.  It was impossible for him to go to her, and he had no reason to believe that she would come to him.  Under ordinary circumstances it would be natural enough for her to look in upon him and inquire into his condition, but now the case was very different.  She knew that he desired to see her, that he had been coming to her when he met with his accident, and she knew, too, exactly what he wanted to say; and it was not to be supposed that a lady would come to a man to be wooed, especially this lady, who had been in such an unfavorable humor when he had wooed her the day before.

But it was quite impossible for Lawrence, at this most important crisis of his life, to sit without action for three or four days, during which time it was not unlikely that Miss March might go home.  But what was he to do?  It would be rediculous to think of sending for her, she knowing for what purpose she was wanted; and as for writing a letter, that did not suit him at all.  There was too much to be explained, too much to be urged, too much to be avowed, and, probably, too many contingencies to be met, for him to even consider the subject of writing a letter.  A proposal on paper would most certainly bring a rejection on paper.  He could think of no plan; he must trust to chance.  If his lucky star, and it had shone a good deal in his life, should give him an opportunity of speaking to her, he would lose not an instant in broaching the important subject.  He was happy to think he had a friend in the old lady.  Perhaps she might bring about the desired interview.  But although this thought was encouraging, he could not but tremble when he remembered the very plain and unvarnished way she had of doing such things.

While these thoughts were passing through his mind, a lady came out upon the porch, and descended the steps.  At the first sight of her through the vines, Lawrence had thought it might be Miss March, and his heart had given a jump.  But it was not; it was Mrs Null, and she came over the grass toward him, and stopped in front of his door.  “How are you feeling now?” she asked.  “Does your foot still hurt you?”

“Oh, no,” said Lawrence, “I am in no pain.  The only thing that troubles me is that I have to stay just here.”

“It might have been better on some accounts,” said she, “if you had been taken into the house; but it would have hurt you dreadfully to go up stairs, unless Uncle Isham carried you on his back, which I don’t believe he could do.”

“Of course it’s a great deal better out here,” said Lawrence.  “In fact this is a perfectly charming place to be laid up in, but I want to get about.  I want to see people.”  “Many people?” asked she, with a significant little smile.

Lawrence smiled in return.  “You must know, Mrs Null, from what I have told you,” he said, “that there is one person I want to see very much, and that is why I am so annoyed at being kept here in this chair.”