‘Oh, I am well--almost well; and here is the kind gentleman come to see me!’ cried little Emmy. Agnes turned quickly, and looked at him. She thought it was the surgeon, who was young too, and had shown an almost unprofessional eagerness to explain to her all the peculiarities of this interesting case. When she saw who it really was she turned crimson, gave him a look which was half reproach and half satisfaction, and went away to the other side of the sofa, keeping the little patient between them. This suited both parties very well: for while Agnes felt it at once a demonstration of displeasure and flight out of a dangerous vicinity, it brought her face to face with him, and gave him a favourable point of view for all her changes of countenance. And who could object to his visit here, which charity--only charity--could have brought about? By little Emmy’s sofa, Oswald felt brave enough to defy all the Sisters in the world. ‘I came to inquire into Emmy’s prospects of convalescence,’ said Oswald, insinuatingly; ‘and she tells me there is some place in Margate where children are sent to from the House. If the Sisters will let me pay for the child--she wants sea breezes, I think,’ and he looked at her in a serious parental way, ‘before she can be fit for work again.’ ‘Oh, I think they will be very glad!’ said Agnes, somewhat breathless. She did not want him to know that she had as much as remarked his absence; and yet, in spite of herself, there was a slight tone of coldness and offence in her voice. ‘May I ask you to arrange it for me? I don’t know when she will be able to be moved; but when she is--summer is coming on, and the weather is quite genial already.’ (The weather _is_ quite genial generally, one time or other, in April, to take the unwary in.) ‘Oh, yes,’ said Agnes again, assenting out of sheer timidity and embarrassment. Then she said, hesitating a little, ‘Perhaps it would be better to send word to the Sister Superior yourself.’ ‘Is it necessary? I have been in great trouble lately, which is why I could not ask for poor Emmy last week,’ he said; and so managed as that the deep hatband should catch the eye of Agnes. Her face softened at once, as he saw, and her eyes, after a momentary glance at the hatband, returned inquiring and kind, not furtive or offended, to his face. ‘I am very sorry,’ she said, looking again at the hat, and in an eager, half-apologetic tone. ‘I will speak of it, if you wish. It is very kind of you to think of her--very kind.’ ‘Kind! How can I be sufficiently grateful to Emmy?’ he said, low and quickly, in a tone which the child could not hear; and then he took the little girl’s thin small hand into his, and folded the fingers on a gold coin. ‘This is to hire donkeys on the sands, Emmy,’ he said, ‘but mind you must tell me all about it when you come back.’