Dolly made her mother’s excuses, which seemed to her visitor perfectly natural, and ushered him down to the supper laid in the little kitchen; Dolly explaining very simply that her mother and she had lived there since there had been sickness in the house, and had done so for want of hands to make other arrangements possible.  And Mr. Shubrick seemed also to find it the most natural thing in the world to live in the kitchen, and for all that appeared, had never taken his meals anywhere else in his life.  He did justice to the supper too, which was a great gratification to Dolly; and lifted the kettle for her from the hob when she wanted it, and took his place generally as if he were one of the family.  As for Dolly, there came over her a most exquisite sense of relief; a glimpse of shelter and protection, the like of which she had not known since she could hardly remember when.  True, it was transient; it could not abide; Mr. Shubrick was sitting there opposite her like some one that had fallen from the clouds, and whom mist and shadow would presently swallow up again; but in the meanwhile, what a gleam of light his presence brought!  He would go soon again, of course; he must; but to have him there in the meantime was a momentary comfort unspeakable.  More than momentary; he would stay all night.  And her mother would get a night’s sleep.  For her own part, this feeling of rest was already as good as sleep.  Yes, for once, for a little, a strong hand had come between her and her burdens.  Dolly let herself rest upon it, with an intense appreciation of its strength and sufficiency.

And so resting, she observed her new helper curiously.  She noticed how entirely he was the same man she had seen that Christmas Day in Rome; the same here as there, with no difference at all.  There was the calm of manner that had struck her then, along with the readiness for action; the combination was peculiar, and expressed in every turn of head and hand.  Here, in a strange house, he was as absolutely at ease and unconstrained as if he had been on the quarterdeck of his own ship.  Is it the habit of command? thought Dolly.  But that does not necessarily give a man ease of manner in his intercourse with others who are not under his command.  Meanwhile, Mr. Shubrick sat and talked, keeping up a gentle run of unexciting thoughts, and apparently as much at home in the kitchen of Brierley Cottage as if he had lived there always.

“When have you seen Christina?” Dolly asked.

“Not in some months.”

“Are they at Sorrento yet?”

“No; they spent the winter in Rome, and this summer they are in Switzerland.  I had a letter from Miss Thayer the other day.  I mean, a few weeks ago.”

It occurred to Dolly that one or the other of them must be a slack correspondent.

“I almost wonder they could leave Sorrento,” she remarked.

“They got tired of it.”

“I never get tired of lovely things,” said Dolly.  “The longer I know them the better pleasure I take in them.  I could have stayed in Venice, it seemed to me, for years; and Rome ­I should never have got away from Rome of my own accord, if duty had not made me; and then at Naples, I enjoyed it better the last day than the first.  And Sorrento” ­

“What about Sorrento?”

“Oh, it was ­you know what Sorrento is.  It was roses and myrtles and orange blossoms, and the fire of the pomegranate flowers and the grey of the olives; and the Italian sun, and the Italian air; and, Mr. Shubrick, you know what the Mediterranean is, with all its colours under the shadow of the cliffs and the sunlight on the open sea.  And Vesuvius was always a delightful wonder to me.  And the people were so nice.  Sorrento is perfect.”  A soft breath of a sigh came from Dolly’s heart.

“You do not like England so well?”

“No.  Oh no!  But I could like England.  Mr. Shubrick, my time at Sorrento was almost without care; and you know that makes a difference.”

“Would you like to live without care?” said he.

Dolly looked at him, the question seemed so strange.  “Without anxious care ­I should,” she answered.

“That you may, anywhere.”

“How is it possible, sometimes?” Dolly asked wistfully.

“May I be Yankee enough to answer your question by another?  Is it any relief to you to have me come in and take the watch for to-night?”

“The greatest,” said Dolly.  “I cannot express to you how great it is; for mother and I have had it all to do for so long.  I cannot tell you, Mr. Shubrick, in what a strange lull of rest I have been sitting here since we came downstairs.  I have just let my hands fall.”

“How can you be sure it is safe to do that?” he said, smiling.

“Oh,” said Dolly, “I know you will take care; and while you do, I need not.”

Mr. Shubrick was silent.  Dolly pondered.

“Do I know what you mean?” she said.

“I think you do,” he replied.  “Do you remember it is written, ­’Casting your care upon Him, for He careth for you’?”

“And that means, not to care myself?”

“Not anxiously, or doubtfully.  You cannot trust your care to another, and at the same time keep it yourself.”

“I know all that,” said Dolly slowly; “or I thought I knew it.  How is it, then, that it is so difficult to get the good of it?”

“Was it very difficult to trust me?” Mr. Shubrick asked.

“No,” said Dolly, “because ­you know you are not a stranger, Mr. Shubrick.  I feel as if I knew you.”

He lifted his eyes and looked at her; not regarding the compliment to himself, but with a steady, keen eye carrying Dolly’s own words home to her.  He did not say a word; but Dolly changed colour.

“Oh, do you mean that?” she cried, almost with tears.  “Is it because I know Christ so poorly that I trust Him so slowly?”

“What else can it be?  And you know, Miss Dolly, just that absolute trust is the thing the Lord wants of us.  And you know it is the thing of all others that we like from one another.  We need not be surprised that He likes it; for we were made in His image.”

Dolly sat silent, struck and moved both with sorrow and gladness; for if it were possible so to lay down care, what more could burden her? and that she had not done it, testified to more strangeness and distance on her part towards her best Friend than she liked to think of.  Her musings were interrupted by Mr. Shubrick.

“Now may I be introduced to Mr. Copley?” he said.

Dolly was rather doubtful about the success of this introduction.  However, she brought her mother out of the sick-room, and took Mr. Shubrick in; and there, in obedience to his desire, left him, without an introduction; for her father was asleep.

“He will never let him stay there, Dolly,” said Mrs. Copley.  “He will not bear it at all.”  And Dolly waited and feared and hoped.  But the night drew on, and came down upon the world; Mrs. Copley went to bed, at Dolly’s earnest suggestion, and was soon fast asleep, fatigue carrying it over anxiety; and Dolly watched and listened in vain for sounds of unrest from her father’s room.  None came; the house was still; the summer night was deliciously mild; Dolly’s eyelids trembled and closed, and opened, and finally closed again, not to open till the summer morning was bright and the birds making a loud concert of their morning song.

Mr. Shubrick, left alone with his patient, sat down and waited; reviewing meanwhile the room and his surroundings.  It was a moderate-sized, neat, pretty room, with one window looking out upon the garden.  The casement was two-leaved, and one leaf only was part open.  The air consequently was close and hot.  And if the room was neat, that applies only to its natural and normal condition; for if neatness includes tidiness, it could not be said at present to deserve that praise.  There was an indescribable litter everywhere, such as is certain to accumulate in a sick-room if the watchers are not imbued with the spirit of order.  Here were one or two spare pillows, on so many chairs; over the back of another chair hung Mr. Copley’s dressing-gown; at a very unconnected distance from his slippers under a fourth chair.  On still another chair lay a plate and knife with the remains of an orange; on the mantelpiece, the rest of the chairs, the tables, and even the floor, stood a miscellaneous assortment of cups, glasses, saucers, bottles, spoons, and pitchers, large and small, attached to as varied an assemblage of drinks and medicines.  Only one medicine was to be given from time to time, Mr. Shubrick had been instructed; and that was marked, and he recognised it; what were all the rest of this assemblage doing here?  Some books lay about also, and papers, and magazines; here a shawl, there some articles of female apparel; and a basket of feminine work.  The litter was general, and somewhat disheartening to a lover of order; Mrs. Copley being one of those people who have nothing of the sort belonging to them, and indeed during the most of her life accustomed to have somebody else keep order for her; servants formerly, Dolly of late.  Mr. Shubrick sat and looked at all these things, but made no movement, until by and by his patient awoke.  It was long past sunset now, the room in partial twilight, yet illumination enough still reflected from a very bright sky for the two people there to see each what the other looked like.  Mr. Copley used his eyes in this investigation for a few minutes in silence.

“Who are you?” he inquired abruptly.

“A friend.”

“What friend?  You are a friend I don’t know.”

“That is true; but it will not be true to-morrow,” Mr. Shubrick said quietly.

“What are you here for?”

“To act the part of a friend, if you will allow me.  I am here to wait upon you, Mr. Copley.”

“Thank you, I prefer my own people about me,” said the sick man curtly.  “You may go, and send them, or some of them, to me.”

“I cannot do that,” said the stranger, “and you must put up with me for to-night.  Mrs. Copley and your daughter are both very tired, and need rest.”

“Humph!” said the invalid with a surprised grunt.  “Did they send you here?”

“No.  They permitted me to come.  I take it as a great privilege.”

“You take it before you have got it.  I have not given my leave yet.  What are you doing there?”

“Letting some fresh air in for you.”  Mr. Shubrick was setting wide open both leaves of the casement.

“You mustn’t do that.  The night air is not good for me.  Shut the window.”

“You cannot have any air at night but night air,” replied Mr. Shubrick, uttering what a great authority has since spoken, and leaving the window wide open.

“But night air is very bad.  I don’t want it; do you hear?”

“If you will lie still a minute or two, you will begin to feel that it is very good.  It is full of the breath of roses and mignonette, and a hundred other pleasant things.”

“But I tell you that’s poison!” cried Mr. Copley, beginning to excite himself.  “I choose to have the window shut; do you hear me, sir?  Confound you, I want it shut!”

The young man, without regarding this order, came to the bedside, lifted Mr. Copley’s head and shook up his pillows and laid him comfortably down again.

“Lie still,” he said, “and be quiet.  You are under orders, and I am in command here to-night.  I am going to take care of you, and you have no need to think about it.  Is that right?”

“Yes,” said the other, with another grunt half of astonishment and half of relief, ­“that’s right.  But I want the window shut, I tell you.”

“Now you shall have your broth.  It will be ready presently.”

“I don’t want any broth!” said the sick man.  “If you could get me a glass of wine; ­that would set me up.  I’m tired to death of these confounded slops.  They are nothing for a man to grow strong upon.  Never would make a man strong ­never!”

Mr. Shubrick made no answer.  He was going quietly about the room.

“What are you doing?” said the other presently, watching him.

“Making things ship-shape ­clearing decks.”

“What do you know about clearing decks?” said Mr. Copley.

“I will show you.”

And the sick man watched with languid amusement to see how, as his new nurse went from place to place, the look of the room changed.  Shawls and clothing were folded up and bestowed on a chest of drawers; slippers were put ready for use at the bedside; books were laid together neatly on the table; and a small army of cups and glasses and empty vials were fairly marched out of the room.  In a little while the apartment was in perfect order, and seemed half as large again.  The invalid drew a long breath.

“You’re an odd one!” said he, when he caught Mr. Shubrick’s eye again.  “Where did you learn all that? and who are you? and how did you come here?  I have a right to know.”

“You have a perfect right, and shall know all about me,” was the answer; “but first, here is your broth, hot and good.” (Mr. Shubrick had just received it from the little maid at the door).  “Take this now, and to-morrow, if you behave well, you shall have something better.”

Mr. Copley suffered himself to be persuaded, took the broth, and then repeated his question.

“I am Sandie Shubrick, lieutenant in the United States navy, on board ship ‘The Red Chief;’ just now on furlough, and in England.”

“What did you come to England for?”

“Business and pleasure.”

“Which do you call this you are about now?”

“Both,” said Mr. Shubrick, smiling.  “Now you may lie still, and keep the rest of your questions for another time.”

Mr. Copley yielded, and lay looking at his new attendant, till he dozed off into unconsciousness.  Waking then after a while, hot and restless, his nurse brought water and a sponge and began sponging his face and neck and hands; gently and soothingly; and kept up the exercise until restlessness abated, breaths of satisfied content came at easy intervals; and finally Mr. Copley slumbered off peacefully, and knew no more.  When he awoke the sun was shining on the oaks of Brierley Park.  The window was open, as it had been all night, and by the window sat Mr. Shubrick, looking out.  The sick man eyed him for a while.

“Are you asleep there?” he said at last, growing impatient of the silence.  Mr. Shubrick got up and came to him.

“Good morning!” said he.  “How have you rested?”

“I believe it’s the best night I’ve had yet.  What were you doing to me in the night? using a sponge to me, weren’t you?  It put me to sleep.  I believe it would cure a man of a fever, by Jupiter.”

“Not by Jupiter,” said Mr. Shubrick.  “And you must not say such things while I am here.”

“Why not?” Mr. Copley opened his eyes somewhat.

“It is no better than counterfeit swearing.”

“Would you rather have the true thing?”

“I never permit either, where I am in authority?”

“Your authority can’t reach far.  You’ve got to take the world as you find it.”

“I dispute that.  You’ve got to take the world and make it better.”

“What do you do where your authority is not sufficient?”

“I go away.”

“Look here,” said Mr. Copley.  “Do you call yourself in authority here?”

“Those are the only terms on which I could stay,” said Mr. Shubrick, smiling.

“Well, see,” said the other, ­“I wish you would stay.  You’ve done me more good than all the doctor and everybody else before you.”

“I come after them all, remember.”

“I wish you had come before them.  Women don’t know anything.  There’s my wife, ­she would have let the room get to be like a Jew’s old clothes shop, and never be aware of it.  I didn’t know what was choking me so, and now I know it was the confusion.  You belong to the navy?”

“I told you so last evening,” said Mr. Shubrick, who meanwhile was sponging Mr. Copley’s face and hands again and putting him in order generally, so as a sick man’s toilet might be made.

“By Jupiter! ­I beg your pardon ­I believe I am going to get over this, after all,” said Mr. Copley “I am sure I shall, if you’ll stay and help me.”

“I will do it with pleasure.  Now, what are you going to have for your breakfast?”

“But, look here.  Why should you stay with me?  I am nothing to you.  Who’s to pay you for it?”

“I do not come for pay; or rather, I get it as I go along.  Make yourself easy, and tell me about your breakfast.”

“How do you come here?  I don’t know you.  Who does know you?”

“I have been a friend of your friends, Mr. and Mrs. Thayer, for many years.”

“Humph.  Ah!  Well.  About breakfast, I don’t know what they have got for me downstairs; some lolypop or other.”

“We’ll do better for you than that,” said Mr. Shubrick.

The morning meanwhile had come to the other inmates of the house.  Dolly had left the sofa where she had spent the night, with a glad consciousness that the night was over and there had been no disturbance.  Her mother had slept all the night through and was sleeping yet.  What refreshment and comfort it was.  What strength and rest, to think of that kind, calm, strong, resolute man in her father’s room; somebody that could be depended upon.  Dolly thought Christina ought to be a happy woman, with always such a hand to support her all her life long.  “And he drinks no wine,” thought Dolly; “that temptation will never overtake him; she will never have to be ashamed of him.  He will hold her up, and not she him.  She is happy.”

The worst thing about Mr. Shubrick’s coming was, that he must go away again!  However, not yet; he would be seen at breakfast first; and to prepare breakfast was now Dolly’s next care.  Then she got her mother up and persuaded her to make herself nice and appear at the meal.

“You are never going to bring him down into the kitchen?” said Mrs. Copley, horrified, when she got there.

“Certainly, mother; it is no use trying to make a fuss.  I cannot give him breakfast anywhere else.”

“Then I would let him go to the village, Dolly, and get his breakfast there.”

“But that would be very inhospitable.  He was here at supper, mother; I don’t think he was frightened.  He knows just how we are situated.”

“He doesn’t know you have nobody to help you, I hope?”

“How could he help knowing it?  The thing is patent.  Never mind, mother; the breakfast will be good, if the breakfast-room is only so so.  If you do not mind, nobody else will.”

“That you should come to this!” said Mrs. Copley, sinking into a chair.  “My Dolly!  Doing a servant’s work, and for strangers, and nobody to help or care!  And what are we coming to?  I don’t see, for my part.  You are ruined.”

“Not yet,” said Dolly cheerfully.  “If I am, I do not feel like it.  Now, mother, see if you can get Mr. Shubrick down here before my omelette is ruined; for that is the greatest danger just at present.”

It was not quite easy to get Mr. Shubrick down there, however; he demurred very seriously; and I am afraid the omelette was something the worse before he came.  But then the breakfast was rather gay.  The watcher reported a quiet night, and as he was much inclined to think, an amended patient.

“Quiet!” echoed Mrs. Copley.  “How could you keep him quiet?”

“I suppose I imagined myself on board ship,” said the young man, smiling, “and gave orders, as I am accustomed to do there.  Habit is a great thing.”

“And Mr. Copley minded your orders?”

“That is understood.”

“Well!” ejaculated Mrs. Copley.  “He never would do the least thing I or Dolly wanted him to do; not the least thing. He has been giving the orders all along; and as fidgetty as ever he could be.  Fidgetty and nervous.  Wasn’t he fidgetty?”

“No; very docile and peaceable.”

“You must be a wonderful man,” said Mrs. Copley.

“Habit,” said Mr. Shubrick.  “As I said, it is a great thing.”

“He has been having his own way all along,” said Mrs. Copley; “and ordering us about, and doing just the things he ought not to do.  He was always that way.”

“Not the proper way for a sick room,” said Mr. Shubrick.  “You had better install me as head nurse.”

How Dolly wished they could do that!  As she saw him there at the table, with his quiet air of efficiency and strength, Dolly thought what a treasure he was in a sick house; how strong she felt while she knew he was near.  Perhaps Mrs. Copley’s thoughts took the same turn; she sighed a little as she spoke.

“You have been very kind, Mr. Shubrick.  We shall never forget it.  You have been a great help.  If Mr. Copley would only get better now” ­

“I am going to see him better before I go.”

“We could not ask any more help of you.”

“You need not,” and Mr. Shubrick smiled.  “Mr. Copley has done me the honour to ask me.”

“Mr. Copley has asked you!” repeated Mrs. Copley in bewilderment.  “What?”

“Asked me to stay.”

“To stay and nurse him?”

“Yes.  And I said I would.  You cannot turn me away after that.”

“But you have your own business in England,” Dolly here put in.

“This is it, I think.”

“Your own pleasure, then.  You did not come to England for this.”

“It seems I did,” he said.  “I am off duty, Miss Dolly, I told you; here on furlough, to do what I like; and there is nothing else at present that I should like half so well.”

Dolly scored another private mark here to the account of Mr. Shubrick’s goodness; and in the ease which suddenly came to her own mind, felt as if her head were growing light and giddy.  But it was no illusion or dream.  Mr. Shubrick was really there, finishing his breakfast, and really going to stay and take care of her father; and Dolly felt as if the tide of their affairs had turned.

So indeed it proved.  From that time Mr. Shubrick assumed the charge of the sick-room, by night and also by day.  He went for a walk to the village sometimes, and always got his dinner there; the rest of the time he was at the cottage, attending to everything that concerned Mr. Copley.  Dolly and her mother were quite put away from that care.  And whether it were the moral force of character, which acted upon Mr. Copley, or whether it were that his disorder had really run its length and that a returning tide of health was coming back to its channels, the sick man certainly was better.  He grew better from day to day.  He had been quiet and manageable from the first in his new nurse’s hands; now he began to take pleasure in his society, holding long talks with him on all possible subjects.  Appetite mended also, and strength was gradually replacing weakness, which had been very great.  Anxiety on the one score of her father’s recovery was taken away from Dolly.

Other anxieties remained, and even pressed harder, when the more immediately engrossing care was removed.  In spite of Mr. Shubrick’s lecture about casting off care, Dolly found it difficult to act upon the truth she knew.  Her little fund of money was much reduced; she could not help asking herself how they were going to live?  Would her father, as soon as he was strong enough, go back to his former ways and be taken up with his old companions? and if he did, how much longer could the little household at Brierley struggle on alone?  What had become of all her father’s property in America, from which in old time the income had always been more than sufficient for all their wants and desires?  Was it gone irrevocably? or had only the ready money accruing from it been swallowed up in speculation or pleasure?  And whence could Dolly get light on these points, or how know what steps she ought to take?  Could her weakness do anything, in view of that fact to which her mother had alluded, that Mr. Copley always took his own way?  It was all utter and dark confusion as she looked forward.  Could Dolly trust and be quiet?

In her meditations another subject occupied her a good deal.  The presence of Sandie Shubrick was such a comfort that it was impossible not to think what she would do without him when he was gone.  He was a universal comfort.  Since he had taken charge of the sick-room, the sickness was disappearing; while he was in command, there was no rebellion; the affairs of the household worked smoothly, and Dolly had no need to draw a single long breath of perplexity or anxiety.  The sound of that even, firm step on the gravel walk or in the hall, was a token of security; the sight of Mr. Shubrick’s upright, alert figure anywhere was good for courage and hope.  His resolute, calm face was a light in the house.  Dolly’s thoughts were much busied with him and with involuntary speculations about him and Christina.  It was almost unavoidable.  She thought, as indeed she had thought before, that Miss Thayer was a happy woman, to have so much strength and goodness belonging to her.  What a shielded life hers would be, by this man’s side.  He would never neglect her or prefer his interests to hers; he would never give her cause to be ashamed of him; and here Dolly’s lips sometimes quivered and a hot tear or two forced their way out from under her eyelids.  And how could possibly Christina so play fast and loose with him, do dishonour to so much goodness, and put off her consent to his wishes until all grace was gone out of it?  Mr. Shubrick apparently had made up his mind to this treatment and was not cast down by it; or perhaps would he, so self-reliant as he was, be cast down utterly by anything?

I think perhaps Dolly thought too much about Mr. Shubrick.  It was difficult to help it.  He had brought such a change into her life; he was doing such a work in the house; he was so very pleasant a companion at those breakfasts and suppers in the kitchen.  For his dinner Mr. Shubrick persisted in going to the village inn.  He said the walk did him good.  He had become in these few days quite as one of themselves.  And now he would go.  Mr. Copley was fast getting well, and his nurse would go.  Dolly could not bear to think of it.