Kind heart! Gentle soul! And--what else did she say?
That she had 'really grown quite fond' of me! Can I--dare I--believe that?
No!--it is a mere feminine phrase--spoken out of compassionate impulse.
Fond of me! In my apparent condition of utter poverty,--old, ill and useless, who could or would be 'fond' of me!" Yet he dwelt on the words with a kind of hope that nerved and invigorated him, and when at noon Mary came and assisted him to get up out of bed, he showed greater evidence of strength than she had imagined would be possible.

True, his limbs ached sorely, and he was very feeble, for even with the aid of a stick and the careful support of her strong arm, his movements were tottering and uncertain, and the few steps between his bedroom and the kitchen seemed nearly a mile of exhausting distance.

But the effort to walk did him good, and when he sank into the armchair which had been placed ready for him near the fire, he looked up with a smile and patted the gentle hand that had guided him along so surely and firmly.
"I'm an old bag of bones!" he said--"Not much good to myself or to any one else! You'd better bundle me out on the doorstep!" For an answer she brought him a little cup of nourishing broth tastily prepared and bade him drink it--"every drop, mind!"-- she told him with a little commanding nod.

He obeyed her,--and when he gave her back the cup empty he said, with a keen glance: "So I am your father's friend, am I, Mary ?" The blood rushed to her cheeks in a crimson tide,--she looked at him appealingly, and her lips trembled a little.
"You were so very ill!" she murmured--"I was afraid you might die,--and I had to send for the only doctor we have in the village--Mr.
Bunce,--the boys call him Mr.Dunce, but that's their mischief, for he's really quite clever,--and I was bound to tell him something by way of introducing you and making him take care of you--even--even if what I said wasn't quite true! And--and--I made it out to myself this way--that if father had lived he would have done just all he could for you, and then you _would_ have been his friend--you couldn't have helped yourself!" He kept his eyes upon her as she spoke.

He liked to see the soft flitting of the colour to-and-fro in her face,--- her skin was so clear and transparent,--a physical reflection, he thought, of the clear transparency of her mind.
"And who was your father, Mary ?" he asked, gently.
"He was a gardener and florist,"-- she answered, and taking from the mantelshelf the photograph of the old man smiling serenely amid a collection of dwarf and standard roses, she showed it to him--"Here he is, just as he was taken after an exhibition where he won a prize.