"You say Margaret Gaither has a daughter, Gabriel?" said Dr. Dorrington, suddenly growing serious, much to the relief of the others. "And about Nan's age? Well, you will have to go in with me, daughter, and see her. If her mother is seriously ill, it will be a great comfort to her to have near her some one of her own age."
Nan made a pretty little mouth at this command, to show that she didn't relish it, but otherwise she made no objection. Indeed, as matters fell out, it became almost her duty to go in to Margaret Bridalbin; for when the carriage reached the house, the young girl was standing at the gate.
"Is this Dr. Dorrington? Well, you are to go up at once. They are constantly calling to know if you have come. I don't know how my dearest is—I dread to know. Oh, I am sure you will do what you can." There was an appeal in the girl's voice that went straight to the heart of the physician.
"You may make your mind easy on that score, my dear," said Dr. Dorrington, laying his hand lightly on her shoulder. There was something helpful and hopeful in the very tone of his voice. "This is my daughter Nan," he added.
Margaret turned to Nan, who was lagging behind somewhat shyly. "Will you please come in?—you and Gabriel Tolliver. It is very lonely here, and everything is so still and quiet. My name is Margaret Bridalbin," she said. She took Nan's hand, and looked into her eyes as if searching for sympathy. And she must have found it there, for she drew Nan toward her and kissed her.
That settled it for Nan. "My name is Nan Dorrington," she said, swallowing a lump in her throat, "and I hope we shall be very good friends."
"We are sure to be," replied the other, with emphasis. "I always know at once."
They went into the dim parlour, and Nan and Margaret sat with their arms entwined around each other. "Gabriel told me yesterday that you were a young girl," Nan remarked.
"I am seventeen," replied the other.
"Only seventeen! Why, I am seventeen, and yet I seem to be a mere child by the side of you. You talk and act just as a grown woman does."
"That is because I have never associated with children of my own age. I have always been thrown with older persons. And then my mother has been ill a long, long time, and I have been compelled to do a great deal of thinking. I know of nothing more disagreeable than to have to think. Do you dislike poor folks?"
"No, I don't," replied Nan, snuggling up to Margaret. "Some of my very bestest friends are poor."
Margaret smiled at the childish adjective, and placed her cheek against Nan's for a moment. "I'm glad you don't dislike poverty," she said, "for we are very poor."
"When it comes to that," Nan responded, "everybody around here is poor—everybody except Grandfather Clopton and Mr. Tomlin. They have money, but I don't know where they get it. Nonny says that some folks have only to dream of money, and when they wake in the morning they find it under their pillows."
Dr. Dorrington came downstairs at this moment. "Your mother is very much better than she was awhile ago," he said to Margaret. "She never should have made so long a journey. She has wasted in that way strength enough to have kept her alive for six months."
"I begged and implored her not to undertake it," the daughter explained, "but nothing would move her. Even when she needed nourishing food, she refused to buy it; she was saving it to bring her home."
"Well, she is here, now, and we'll do the best we can. Gabriel, will you run over, and ask Fanny Tomlin to come? And if Neighbour Tomlin is there tell him I want to see him on some important business."
It was very clear to Gabriel from all this that there was small hope for the poor lady above. She might be better than she was when the doctor arrived, but there was no ray of hope to be gathered from Dr. Dorrington's countenance.
Pulaski Tomlin and his sister responded to the summons at once; and with Gabriel's grandmother holding her hand, the poor lady had an interview with Pulaski Tomlin. But she never saw his face nor he hers. The large screen was carried upstairs from the dining-room, and placed in front of the bed; and near the door a chair was placed for Pulaski Tomlin. It was the heart's desire of the dying lady that Neighbour Tomlin should become the guardian of her daughter. He was deeply affected when told of her wishes, but before consenting to accept the responsibility, asked to see the daughter, and went to the parlour, where she was sitting with Nan and Gabriel. When he came in Nan ran and kissed him as she never failed to do, for, though his face on one side was so scarred and drawn that the sight of it sometimes shocked strangers, those who knew him well, found his wounded countenance singularly attractive.
"This is Margaret," he said, taking the girl's hand. "Come into the light, my dear, where you may see me as I am. Your mother has expressed a wish that I should become your guardian. As an old and very dear friend of mine, she has the right to make the request. I am willing and more than willing to meet her wishes, but first I must have your consent."
They went into the hallway, which was flooded with light. "Are you the Mr. Tomlin of whom I have heard my mother speak?" Margaret asked, fixing her clear eyes on his face; and when he had answered in the affirmative—"I wonder that she asked you, after what she has told me. She certainly has no claims on you."
"Ah, my dear, that is where you are wrong," he insisted. "I feel that every one in this world has claims on me, especially those who were my friends in old times. It is I who made a mistake, and not your mother; and I should be glad to rectify that mistake now, as far as I can, by carrying out her wishes. You know, of course, that she is very ill; will you go up and speak with her?"
"No, not now; not when there are so many strangers there," Margaret replied, and stood looking at him with almost childish wonder.
At this moment, Nan, who knew by heart all the little tricks of friendship and affection, left Margaret, and took her stand by Neighbour Tomlin's side. It was an indorsement that the other could not withstand. She followed Nan, and said very firmly and earnestly, "It shall be as my mother wishes."
"I hope you will never have cause to regret it," remarked Pulaski Tomlin solemnly.
"She never will," Nan declared emphatically, as Pulaski Tomlin turned to go upstairs.
He went up very slowly, as if lost in thought. He went to the room and stood leaning against the framework of the door. "Pulaski is here," said Miss Fanny, who had been waiting to announce his return.
"You remember, Pulaski," the invalid began, "that once when you were ill, you would not permit me to see you. I was so ignorant that I was angry; yes, and bitter; my vanity was wounded. And I was ignorant and bitter for many years. I never knew until eighteen months ago why I was not permitted to see you. I knew it one day, after I had been ill a long time. I looked in the mirror and saw my wasted face and hollow eyes. I knew then, and if I had known at first, Pulaski, everything would have been so different. I have come all this terrible journey to ask you to take my daughter and care for her. It is my last wish that you should be her guardian and protector. Is she in the room? Can she hear what I am about to say?"
"No, Margaret," replied Pulaski Tomlin, in a voice that was tremulous and husky. "She is downstairs; I have just seen her."
"Well, she has no father according to my way of thinking," Margaret Bridalbin went on. "Her father is a deserter from the Confederate army. She doesn't know that; I tried to tell her, but my heart failed me. Neither does she know that I have been divorced from him. These things you can tell her when the occasion arises. If I had told her, it would have been like accusing myself. I was responsible—I felt it and feel it—and I simply could not tell her."
"I shall try to carry out your wishes, Margaret," said Pulaski Tomlin; "I have seen your daughter, as Fanny suggested, and she has no objection to the arrangement. I shall do all that you desire. She shall be to me a most sacred charge."
"If you knew how happy you are making me, Pulaski—Oh, I am grateful—grateful!"
"There should be no