The rector knelt and prayed in silence. He loved the intelligent child in his Sunday school--the nightingale in his church choir. Zerah obeyed his example.
Then both heard the stair creak, and a heavy tread sounded on the boards.
Mrs. Pepperill looked round, but the irregular tread would have told her who had entered the attic chamber without the testimony of her eyes. She stood up and signed to Jason Quarm to be less noisy in his movements.
“Pshaw!” said he; “it is nothing. Kitty will get over it. You, Zerah, are tough. I am tough. Leather toughness is the characteristic of us Quarms. When she is better, send her to me--to the moor. That will set her up.”
Jason went to the head of the bed and laid his large hand on the sick girl’s brow. The coolness of his palm seemed to do her good.
“You see--it comforts the little toad,” said her father. “There is nothing to alarm you in the case. Children are like corks. They go under water and are up again--mostly up. Dipping under is temporary--temporary and soon over. Parson, do you want to speculate? I am buying oak dirt cheap--to sell at a tremendous profit. Ten per cent. at the least. What do you say?”
“Well, I shouldn’t go away from Coombe with Kitty ill but that I expect to make my fortune and hers. She’ll have a dower some day out of the Brimpts oaks.”
Then the man stumped out of the room and down the steep stairs.
“Do you think Kate will live?” asked Zerah, who did not share his views.
“I trust so,” answered the rector. “If she does, then regard her as a gift from heaven. Once before she was put, a frail and feeble object, into your arms to rear and cherish. You were then too much engrossed in your daughter to give to this child your full attention. Your own Wilmot has been taken away. Now your niece has been almost withdrawn from you. But the hand that holds the issues of life and death spares her; she is committed to you once more--again helpless, frail, and committed to you that you may envelop her in an atmosphere of LOVE.”
“I have loved her,” said Mrs. Pepperill. “This is the second time, sir, that you have charged me with lack of love towards Kate.”
“Wilmot,” said the rector, “was one who stormed the heart. She went up against it, with flags flying and martial music, and broke in at the point of the bayonet. Kate’s nature is different. She will storm no heart. She sits on the doorstep as a beggar, and does not even knock and solicit admission. Throw open your door, extend your hand, and the timid child will falter in, frightened, yet elate with hope.”