Lady Betty had gone away the very next day to pay a two months’ visit to an old school-fellow in Cornwall:  so Gladys would be utterly alone.  Uncle Max was still in Norwich, detained by most vexatious lawyer’s business:  so that I had not even the solace of his companionship.  If it had not been for Mr. Tudor, I should have been quite desolate.  But I was always meeting him in the village, and his cheery greeting was a cordial to me.  He always walked back with me, talking in his eager, boyish way.  And I had sometimes quite a trouble to get rid of him.  He would stand for a quarter of an hour at a time leaning over the gate and chatting with me.  By a sort of tacit consent, he never offered to come in, neither did I invite him.  We were both too much afraid of Miss Darrell’s comments.

In all those ten days I only saw Mr. Hamilton once, for on Sunday his seat in church had been vacant.

I was dressing little Jessie’s burns one morning, and talking to her cheerfully all the time, for she was a nervous little creature, when I heard his footstep outside.  And the next instant he was standing beside us.

His curt ‘Good-morning; how is the patient, nurse?’ braced my faltering nerves in a moment, and enabled me to answer him without embarrassment.  He had his grave professional air, and looked hard and impenetrable.  I had reason afterwards to think that this sternness of manner was assumed for my benefit, for once, when I was preparing some lint for him, I looked up inadvertently and saw that he was watching me with an expression that was at once sad and wistful.

He turned away at once, when he saw I noticed him, and I left the room as quickly as I could, for I felt the tears rising to my eyes.  I had to sit down a moment in the porch to recover myself.  That look, so sad and yearning, had quite upset me.  If I had not known before, past all doubt, that Mr. Hamilton loved me, I must have known it then.

We met more frequently after this.  Janet Coombe was dangerously ill, and Mr. Hamilton saw her two or three times a day.  And, of course, I was often there when he came.

He dropped his sternness of manner after a time, but he was never otherwise than grave with me.  The long, unrestrained talks, the friendly looks, the keen interest shown in my daily pursuits, were now things of the past.  A few professional inquiries, directions about the treatment, now and then a brief order to me, too peremptory to be a compliment, not to over-tire myself, or to go home to rest,—­this was all our intercourse.  And yet, in spite of his guarded looks and words, I was often triumphant, even happy.

Outwardly, and to all appearance, I was left alone, but I knew that it was far otherwise in reality.  I was most strictly watched.  Nothing escaped his scrutiny.  At the first sign of fatigue he was ready to take my place, or find help for me.  Mrs. Saunders, the mistress of the Man and Plough, told me more than once that the doctor had been most particular in telling her to look after me.  Nor was this all.