At last she withdrew her glance, sighed, turned unconsciously and, again raising her dark eyes, suddenly perceived him. Immediately all her dispelled confusion rushed back upon her, heightened now to the point of shame, and she flushed, hung her head as he advanced towards her and warmly took her hand.
"It is Mary," he said, "Mary Brodie come back again to see me."
With a great effort she forced her disconcerted gaze upwards, looked at him and replied in a low tone:
"You remember me then. I thought you would have forgotten all about me. I've I've changed so much."
"Changed!" he cried. "You haven't changed, unless it's that you're bonnier than ever! Tut! Don't look so ashamed of it, Mary. It's not a crime to look as lovely as you do."
She smiled faintly at him as he continued cheerfully, "As for forgetting you, how could I forget one of my first patients, the one who did me most credit, when I was struggling along with nothing in this very room but the empty packing case that my books had come in."
She looked round the present rich comfort of the room and, still slightly discomposed, she replied, at a tangent to her main thoughts:
"There's more than that here now, Doctor Renwick!"
"You see! That's what you've done for me," he exclaimed. "Made my name by your pluck in pulling through. You did the work and I got the credit!"
"It was only the credit you got," she replied slowly. "Why did you return the fee I sent you?"
"I got your address from the letter you that ran away without saying good-bye," he cried; "that was all the fee I wanted." He seemed strangely pleased to see her and strangely near to her, as though four years had not elapsed since he had last spoken to her and he still sat by her bedside compelling her back to life by his vital animation.
"Tell me all that you've been doing," he ran on, endeavouring to put her at her ease. "Wag your tongue! Let me see you haven't forgotten your old friends."
"I haven't forgotten you, Doctor, or I wouldn't be here now. I'll never forget all that you've done for me."
"Tuts! I don't want you to wag the tongue that way! I want to hear about yourself. Fm sure you've got all London on its knees before you by this time."
She shook her head at his words and, with a faint humour lurking in her eyes, replied:
"No! I've done the kneeling myself scrubbing floors and washing steps!"
"What!" he cried, in amazed concern. "You haven't been working like that?"
"I don't mind hard work," she said lightly. "It did me good; took my thoughts away from my own wretched troubles."
"You were never made for that sort of thing," he exclaimed reproachfully. "It's scandalous! It was downright wicked of you to run away as you did. We could have found something more suitable for you to do."
"I wanted to escape from everything then” she answered sadly. "I wished help from no one."
"Well, don't do it again," he retorted with some asperity. "Will you rush away like that again, without saying good-bye to a man?"
"No," she replied mildly.
He could not forbear to smile at her air of submission as he motioned her to sit down and, drawing a small chair close up beside her, said:
"I have been forgetting such manners as I have, to keep you standing like this, but really, Miss Mary, it is such a sudden and unexpected pleasure to see you again! You must be lenient with me." Then after a pause he asked, "You would get my letters? They were dismal reminders of this place, were they not?"
She shook her head.
"I want to thank you for them. I would never have known of Mamma's death if you hadn't written. Those letters brought me back."
He looked at her steadily and replied:
"I knew you would come back some day. I felt it." Then he added, "But tell me what has actually brought you back?"
"Nessie! My sister Nessie!" she said slowly. "Things have been dreadful at home and she has suffered. She needed me so I came home. It's because of her I've come to see you. It's a great liberty on my part after you’ve done so much for me already. Forgive me for coming! I need help!"
"Tell me how you wish me to help you and I'll do it," he exclaimed. "Is Nessie ill?"
"Not exactly ill," said Mary, "although somehow she alarms me; she is so nervous, so easily excited. She laughs and cries by turns and she has got so thin, seems to eat so little. But although it worries me, I really did not come about that." She paused for a moment, gathering courage to tell him, then continued bravely: "It is about my father. He treats her so peculiarly, not unkindly, but forcing her so unreasonably to work at her lessons, to study all the time, not only at school, but the whole long evening and every evening. She is shut up by herself and made to 'stick in' as he calls it, so that she will win the Latta Bursary. He has set his mind on that. She tells me that he throws it at her head every time she sees him, threatening her with all manner of penalties if she fails. If he would leave her alone, she would do it in her own way, but he drives and drives at her and she is so fragile I am afraid of what is going to happen. Last night she cried for an hour in my arms before she went to sleep. I am very anxious!"
He looked at her small, sad, earnest face, was filled with a quick vision of her comforting and consoling her sister, thought suddenly of the child which, despite his every effort, had been lost to her, and with a grave face answered:
"I can see you are anxious, but it is a difficult matter to interfere in. We must consider it. Your father is not actually cruel to her?"
"No! But he terrifies her. He used to be fond of her but he is so changed now that even his fondness is changed to something strange and terrible."
He had heard, of course, the stories concerning Brodie's altered habits but forbore to question her more deeply on this particular point and, instead, he exclaimed:
"Why is he so eager for her to win the Latta? It's usually a boy that wins that is it not never a girl?"
"That may be the reason," replied Mary sadly; "he's always been mad for some unusual kind of success to bring credit on himself; always wanted Nessie to do well because of his own pride. But now I'm certain he doesn't know what he'll do with her when she's won it. He's shoving her on to no purpose."
"Is young Grierson in the running for the Bursary?" queried Renwick, after a moment's consideration. "Your father and Grierson are not exactly on good terms, I believe."
Mary shook her head.
"It's deeper than that, I'm sure," she answered. "You would think the winning of it was going to make Father the envy of the whole town the way he talks."
He looked at her comprehendingly.
"I know your father, Mary, and I know what you mean. I'm afraid all is not right with him. There was always something Well I've come across him in the past too…", he did not say that it had been chiefly on her behalf, "and we have never agreed. There would be little use in my going to see him if, indeed, it were permissible for me to do so. Any direct action of mine would serve only to aggravate him and make his conduct worse."
As she sat observing him while, with an abstracted gaze, he pondered the question, she thought how wise, how kind and considerate he was towards her, not rushing blindly, but reasoning coherently on her behalf; her eyes moved slowly across his strong dark face, vital yet austere, over his spare, active and slightly stooping form, until they fell at length upon his hands, showing sensitive, strong, and brown against the immaculate white bands of his starched linen cuffs. These firm, delicate hands had probed the mysteries of her inanimate body, had saved her life, such as it was, and as she contrasted them in her mind with her own blotched and swollen fingers, she felt the gulf which separated her from this man whose help she had been bold enough to seek. What exquisite hands! A sudden sense of her own inferiority, of her incongruity amongst the luxury and taste of her present surroundings afflicted her, and she diverted her gaze quickly from him to the ground, as though afraid that he might