"And, oh! I wish the time were only come," said she.

Since this must be waited for, she would have liked well to ask kind Doctor Thorne, who had called her "a born nurse," to let her come to him, that she might be at his bidding, and live her life, and do some good in the world. The first time that Doctor Fleming had come to see her, after her long labour and care were over, it had been on her lips to ask him to speak to the good London doctor for her. But that was at the very first, and the fear that Doctor Fleming might wonder at her for thinking of new plans, before the dead man was laid in his grave, had kept her silent. After that she hesitated for other reasons. London was faraway, and the journey was expensive, and it would only be for a year at most, and possibly for less, as whenever her brother said he was ready for her she must go. So there was nothing better for her to do than just to return to her work in the infirmary, and wait with patience.

"And surely that ought to be enough for me, after all I have come through, just to stay there quietly and wait. I ought to ken by this time--and I do ken--that no real ill can come upon me.

"Pain? Yes, and sorrow, and disappointment. But neither doubt, nor fear, nor any real ill can harm me. I may be well content, since I am sure of that. And I _am_ content, only--whiles, I am foolish and forget."

She was not deceiving herself when she said she was content. But she must have forgotten--being foolish--one night on which Doctor Fleming came in to see her. For her cheeks were flushed, and there were traces of tears upon them, as he could see clearly when the light was brought in. She might have causes for anxiety or sorrow, of which he knew nothing. But he would have liked to know what had brought the tears to-night, because he, or rather Mr Rainy, had something to say to her, and he at least was doubtful how she might receive it.

_Was_ he doubtful? Hardly that. But he was quite sure that what was to be said, and all which might follow, would be a trouble to Allison, and the saying of it might be put off, if she had any other trouble to bear.

"Are you rested?" said he. "Are you quite strong and well again?"

"Yes, I am quite well and strong."

"And cheerful? And hopeful?"

"Surely," said Allison, looking at him in surprise.

"Oh! I see what you are thinking. But it is only that I had a letter to-night. No, it brought no ill news. It is from--my Marjorie. I don't know--I canna tell why it should--"

"Why it should have made the tears come, you would say. Well, never mind. I am not going to ask. You are much better and stronger than you were, I am glad to say."

"Yes, I am quite well and cheerful,--only--"

But a knock came to the door, and Allison rose to open it.

"It is Mr Rainy. He has come to speak about--business. But he will not keep you long to-night."

Mr Rainy had never come much into contact with Allison Bain. She was to him "just a woman, like the lave." He had no wife, and no near kin among women, and it is possible that he knew less of the s.e.x than he thought he did. He did not pretend to know much about Allison, but he knew that several people, whose sense and judgment he respected, thought well of her. She was tall and strong, and had a face at which it was a pleasure to look, and, judging from all that he had heard about her, she might be freer than most, from the little vanities and weaknesses usual to her kind. She was a reasonable woman, he had heard, and that he should have anything to do to-night, except to explain how matters stood, and to suggest the time and the manner of certain necessary arrangements, he had not imagined.

He came prepared to be well received, and he did not for a moment doubt that he should make good his claim to be heard and heeded in all that concerned the affairs which Brownrig had left in his hands. So he greeted Allison with gravity suited to the occasion, yet with a cheerfulness which seemed to imply that he had pleasant news to tell.

Allison received him with a quietness which, he told himself, it cost her something to maintain. But he thought none the less of her for that.

"No woman could stand in _her_ shoes this night, and not be moved, and that greatly. And not one in ten could keep a grip of herself as she is doing--no, nor one in fifty," said he to himself. Aloud he said: "I ought, perhaps, to have given you longer time to consider when you could receive me. But the doctor informed me that you had been at the infirmary to-day, and as he was at liberty he suggested that you would doubtless be willing to see us to-night. There are certain matters that must be attended to at once."

"For the present I come home early," said Allison. "The evening is the only time I have to myself."

"Yes. For the present, as you say. Ahem! You are aware, perhaps, that for years I was employed by--by Mr Brownrig in the transaction of so much of his business as was in my line. And you know that during his last illness I was often with him, and was consulted by him. In short, the arrangement of his affairs was left to me."

This was but the introduction to much more. Allison listened in silence, and when he came to a pause she said quietly:

"And what can I have to do with all this?"

Mr Rainy looked a little startled.

"You are not, I should suppose, altogether unaware of the manner in which--I mean of the provisions of your husband's will?"

"I know nothing about it," said Allison.

"Then let me have the pleasure of telling you that by this will, you are, on certain conditions, to be put in possession of all of which Mr Brownrig died possessed. There are a few unimportant legacies to friends." He mentioned the names of several persons, and then went on with his explanations.

Allison understood some things which he said, and some things she neither understood nor heeded. When he came to an end at last, she did not, as he expected, ask what was the condition to which he had referred, but said:

"And what will happen if I say that I can take nothing?"

Mr Rainy looked at her in astonishment.

"That is easily told," said he, with a queer contortion of his face.

"The property of the deceased would go to the next of kin."

Then Mr Rainy waited to hear more,--waited "to see what it was that she would be at," he said to himself.

"And it is your place to settle it all, to see that all is put right as it should be?"

"Yes, that is my place, with the help of one or two others. Your friend Doctor Fleming has something to do with your affairs, under the will."

"What you have to do will be to put the will aside, as if it had never been made. I hope it will not add to the trouble you must have to settle everything without it."

"Are you in earnest?" asked Mr Rainy gravely.

"Surely, I am in earnest."

"Do you mean to say that you refuse to receive the property which your husband left to you? Is it because of the condition? No, it cannot be that, for I named no condition. And indeed it is hardly a condition.

It is rather a request."

Allison asked no question, though he paused expectant.

"The condition--if it can be called a condition--is easy enough to fulfil. It is to take possession of a fine house, and live in it--a while every year, anyway, and to call yourself by your husband's name.

Is that a hard thing to do?"

Allison grew red and then pale.

"I have nothing to say about any condition. With no condition my decision would have been the same. What you have to do must be done with no thought of me."

"But what is your reason? What would you have? You were friends with him. You were good to him all those long months. You had forgiven him before he died."

"I think I had forgiven him long before that time. I came to him because I was sorry for him, and he, too, had something to forgive. I wished to be at peace with him before he died, for his sake and for my own."

"What more need be said? You had forgiven one another, and he wished to make amends. Give me a reason for this most astonishing resolution."

"I can give you no reason, except that I cannot take what you say he has left to me. I have no right to it. It should go to those of his own blood."

There was more said, but not much, and not another word was spoken by Allison. Doctor Fleming, who had been silent hitherto, said something about taking longer time to consider the matter--that there was no need for haste. She should take time, and consult her friends. But he did not seem surprised at her decision, and indeed "spoke in a half-hearted kind of a way, which was likely to do little ill, little good in this strange matter," Mr Rainy declared, with an echo of reproach in his voice, as they left the house together.

"Is she a' there, think ye? It canna surely be that she refuses to be beholden to him, because of the ill turn he did her when he married her?

She forgave him, and that should end all ill thoughts. Yes, she had forgiven him; no one could doubt that who saw her as you saw her. And no one would think of casting up to her that she served him with any thought of what he had to leave behind him. But she might think so, and I daresay she has her ain pride, for all her gentle ways. You must have a word with her, doctor. It is easy seen that your word would go far with her. As for me, I canna follow her, nor understand her, unless it is that she has a want or a weakness about her somewhere."

"No," said the doctor, "it cannot be explained in that way."