Page:Steadfast Heart.djvu/174

 “Good evening,” said Lydia Canfield, a little stiffly, a trifle artificially, perhaps, for she had selected a part to play and was enacting it zealously. “I—I’ve been hoping you would call… because I want to talk about things with you.”

“I—I came to see Uncle Dave—”

“I know. Doc Knipe says he’s better. You can go up in a few minutes.”

“Does he—know anybody?”

“No. But Doctor says he may be conscious for a little while at a time from now on—and with good nursing—which he is getting, though I’m not allowed. He’s so weak….”

“Yes,” said Angus hopelessly.

“Please sit down a moment,” she said, with the voice of one who has chosen a high mission and who proposes to engage upon its prosecution, come what may. He obeyed apprehensively, embarrassed, at a loss how to conduct himself.

“I read the paper,” she said with kind, matronly encouragement, “every word of it. And I thought it was—remarkable.” This, she considered to be exactly the proper word, expressing encouragement to such as Angus from one like herself. Angus looked at her for a brief instant, and she had an uneasy sensation that his look had something to do with the word “remarkable.” But he did not smile. Heaven