John sighed heavily.
"Of course," went on Cicely desperately--"Maryllia may live a long time,--or she may not. She thinks not. And because she thinks not, she wants to see you."
He started nervously.
"To see ME?"
"Yes. It's perfectly natural, isn't it? Isn't it your business to visit the sick,--and---" He interrupted her by a quick gesture.
"Not dying,"--he said--"I will not have the word used! She is not dying--she will not die! She shall not!"
His eyes flashed--he looked all at once like an inspired apostle with the gift of life in his hand. Cicely watched him with a sudden sense of awe.
"If you say so,"--she faltered slowly--"perhaps she will not. Go and see her!"
"To-day?"
"Yes,--this afternoon. She has asked for the school children to come and sing to her,--I shall try to get them about four. If you come at five, she will be able to see you--alone."
A silence fell between them.
"I will come!" said John, at last.
"That's right! Good-bye till then!"
And with a glance more expressive than words, Cicely went.
Left to himself, John threw open his study windows, and stepping out into his garden all wet with rain, made his way to its warmest corner, where, notwithstanding inclement weather, the loveliest sweet violets were thickly blossoming under his glass frames. He began to gather them carefully, and massed them together in bunches of deep purple and creamy white,--while Bainton, working at a little distance off, looked up in surprise and gratification at the sight of him. For it was many weary weeks since 'Passon' had taken any interest in his 'forced blooms.' Nebbie, having got thoroughly draggled and muddy by jumping wildly after his master through an exceedingly wet tangle of ivy, sat demurely watching him, as the little heap of delicately scented blossoms increased.
"The violets are doing wonderfully well this year, Bainton,"--he presently said, with his old kind smile, addressing his gardener--"I am taking these to Miss Vancourt this afternoon."
Bainton lifted his cap respectfully.
"God bless her!" he said,--"An' you too, Passon!"
And John, holding the fragrant bunch of small sweet flowers tenderly in his hand, answered gently-"Thank you, my friend! I hope He will!"