“Ah,” she said, “I was wondering—­”

“Wondering?” He echoed the word after a long pause.  He was plainly surprised.  “You knew that I was here, then?”

“Not until a moment ago, when I heard your footstep.”  As this appeared to surprise him still more, she added, “You have, whether you know it or not, a noticeable footstep, and I a quick ear.  Shall I tell you where, unless fancy played me a trick, I last proved its quickness?”

He bent his head as sign for assent.

“It was in Boston,” she said, “last June—­on the evening after the fight at Bunker Hill.  At midnight, rather.  Before seven o’clock the hospitals were full, and they brought half a dozen poor fellows to my lodgings in Garden Court Street.  Towards midnight one of them, that had lain all the afternoon under the broiling sun by the Mystic and had taken a sunstroke on top of his wound, began raving.  My maid and I were alone in the house, and we agreed that he was dangerous.  I told her that there was nothing to fear; that for an hour past some one had been patrolling the side-walk before the house; and I bade her go downstairs and desire him to fetch a surgeon.  You were that sentinel.”

Again he bent his head.  “I was serving on board the Lively,” he said, “in the ferry-way between you and Charlestown.  I had heard of you—­that you had taken lodgings in Boston, and that the temper of the mob might be uncertain.  So that night I got leave ashore, on the chance of being useful.  I brought the doctor, if you remember.”

“But would not present yourself to claim our thanks.”  She looked at him shrewdly.  “To-day—­did you know that I was in Bath?” she asked.

He owned, “Yes; he had read of her arrival in the Gazette, among the fashionable announcements.”  He did not add, but she divined, that he had waited for her by the Abbey, well guessing that her steps would piously lead her thither and soon.  She changed the subject in some haste.

“Your mother lives in Bath?”

“She has lived here all her life.”

“Sir Oliver spent his last days here.  I am sorry that I had not her acquaintance to cheer me.”

“It was unlikely that you should meet.  We live in the humblest of ways.”

“Nevertheless it would be kind of you to make us acquainted.  Indeed,” she went on, “I very earnestly desire it, having a great need—­since you are so hard to thank directly—­to thank you through somebody for many things, and especially for helping Dicky.”

He laughed grimly as he fell into step with her, or tried to—­but his obstinate stride would not be corrected.  “All the powers that ever were,” he said, “could not hinder Dicky.  He has his captaincy in sight—­at his age!—­and will be flying the blue before he reaches forty.  Mark my words.”