Miriam's flame went out. "You don't mean," she said coldly, "that you discuss me with her?" "No, I do not." "You swear you never have?" He had a pleasing and indulgent smile. "Yes, I swear it, but she dislikes the whole lot of you, and you can't always stop a woman's talk." "You should be able to," she said. She wished she had not come for George did not realize what was due to her. She would go to John and she nodded a cold good-bye. Her hands were in the pockets of her brown woollen coat, her shoulders were lifted towards her ears; she was less beautiful than he had ever seen her, yet in her kindest moments she had not seemed so near to him. He was elated by this discovery; he did not seek its cause and, had he done so, he was not acute enough to see that hitherto the feelings she had shown him had been chiefly feigned, and that this real resentment, marking her face with petulance, revealed her nature to be common with his own. "But you've not told me what you came for," he said. She was reluctant, but she spoke. "To ask you to do something for us." "You know I'll do it." Still sulky, she took a few steps and leaned against the house wall; she had the look of a boy caught in a fault. "We want the doctor." "Who's ill?" "It's Notya." "What's the matter?" "I don't know." She forgot her grievance. "I don't like thinking of it. It makes me sick." "Is she very bad?" "No, but I think he ought to come." "Must I bring him back?" "Just leave a message, please, if it doesn't put you out." In the pause before he spoke, he studied the dark head against the white-washed wall, the slim body, the little feet crossed on the cobbles, and then he stammered: "You--you're like a rose-tree growing up." She spread her arms and turned and drooped her head to encourage the resemblance. "Like that?" He nodded, with the clumsiness of his emotions. "Look here--" "Now, don't be tiresome. Oh, you can tell me what you were going to say." "All these weeks--" "I know, but it was for your sake, George." "How?" "It's difficult to explain, but one night my good angel bent over my bed, like a mother--or was it your good angel?" He grinned. "I don't believe you'd know one if you saw one." "I'm afraid I shouldn't," she admitted, with a laugh. "Would you?" "I fancy I've seen one." "Mrs. Biggs?" she dared. "Me?" "I'm not going to tell you." "I expect it's me. But run away and bring the doctor." "I say--will you wait till I get back?" "I couldn't. Think of Mrs. Biggs!" "Not here. Up in the wood. But never mind. Come and see me saddle the little mare."