ne; and one
day, in secret, went off to Tunbridge Wells to buy a little present as a
proof of their gratitude. Colonel Parsons suggested a bracelet, but his
wife was sure that Mary would prefer something useful; so they brought
back with them a very elaborate and expensive writing-case, which with a
few shy words they presented to her. Mary, poor thing, was overcome with
pleasure.

"It's awfully good of you," she said. "I've done nothing that I wouldn't
have done for any of the cottagers."

"We know it was you who saved him. You--you snatched him from the very
jaws of Death."

Mary paused, and held out her hand.

"Will you promise me one thing?"

"What is it?" asked Colonel Parsons, unwilling to give his word rashly.

"Well, promise that you will never tell James that he owes anything to
me. I couldn't bear him to think I had forced myself on him so as to
have a sort of claim. Please promise me that."

"I should never be able to keep it!" cried the Colonel.

"I think she's right, Richmond. We'll promise, Mary. Besides, James
can't help knowing."

The hopes of the dear people were reviving, and they began to look upon
Jamie's illness, piously, as a blessing of Providence in disguise.
While Mrs. Parsons was about her household work in the morning, the
Colonel would sometimes come in, rubbing his hands gleefully.

"I've been watching them from the kitchen garden," he said.

James lay on a long chair, in a sheltered, shady place, and Mary sat
beside him, reading aloud or knitting.

"Oh, you shouldn't have done that, Richmond," said his wife, with an
indulgent smile, "it's very cruel."

"I couldn't help it, my dear. They're sitting there together just like a
pair of turtle-doves."

"Are they talking or reading?"

"She's reading to him, and he's looking at her. He never takes his eyes
off her."

Mrs. Parsons sighed with a happy sadness.

"God is very good to us, Richmond."

* * *

James was surprised to find how happily he could spend his days with
Mary. He was carried into the garden as soon as he got up, and remained
there most of the day. Mary, as ever, was untiring in her devotion,
thoughtful, anxious to obey his smallest whim.... He saw very soon the
thoughts which were springing up again in the minds of his father and
mother, intercepting the little significant glances which passed between
them when Mary went away on some errand and he told her not to be long,
when they exchanged gentle chaff,