Russel Overshute, narrowed and flattened into half of his proper size, and heightened thereby to unnatural stature--for stoop he would not, although so weak--here he was walking along the damp walk, when a bed, or a sofa, or a drawn-out chair at Shotover Grange, was his proper place. He walked with the help of a crutch-handled stick, and his deep mourning dress made him look almost ghastly. His eyes, however, were bright and steady, and he made an attempt at a cheerful smile, as he congratulated the Squire on the great improvement of his health.
"For that I have to thank you, my dear friend," answered Mr. Oglander; "for weeks I had been helpless, till I helped myself; I mean, of course, by the great blessing of the Lord. But of your sad troubles, whatever shall I say----"
"My dear sir, say nothing, if you please--I cannot bear as yet to speak of them. I ought to be thankful that life is spared to me--doubtless for some good purpose. And I think I know what that purpose is; though now I am confident of nothing."
"Neither am I, Russel, neither am I," said the old man, observing how low his voice was, and speaking in a low sad voice himself. "I used to have confidence in the good will and watchful care of the Almighty over all who trust in Him. But now there is something over there"--he pointed towards the churchyard--"which shows that we may carry such ideas to a foolish point. But I cannot speak of it; say no more."
"I will own," replied Overshute, studying the Squire's downcast face, to see how far he might venture, "at one time I thought that you yourself carried such notions to a foolish length. That was before my illness. Now, I most fully believe that you were quite right."
"Yes, I suppose that I was--so far as duty goes, and the parson's advice. But as for the result--where is it?"
"As yet we see none. But we very soon shall. Can you bear to hear something I want to say, and to listen to it attentively?"
"I believe that I can, Russel. There is nothing now that can disturb me very much."
"This will disturb you, my dear sir, but in a very pleasant way, I hope. As sure as I stand and look at you here, and as sure as the Almighty looks down at us both, that grave in Beckley churchyard holds a gipsy-woman, and no child of yours! Ah! I put it too abruptly, as I always do. But give me your arm, sir, and walk a few steps. I am not very strong, any more than you are. But, please God, we will both get stronger, as soon as our troubles begin to lift."