Arthur drank his wine by himself, when Lady Rockminster retired to
take her doze, and to be played and sung to sleep by Laura
after dinner.
"If my music can give her a nap," said the good-natured girl, "ought I
not to be very glad that I can do so much good? Lady Rockminster
sleeps very little of nights: and I used to read to her until I fell
ill at Paris, since when she will not hear of my sitting up."
"Why did you not write to me when you were ill?" asked Pen, with a
blush.
"What good could you do me? I had Martha to nurse me; and the doctor
every day. You are too busy to write to women or to think about them.
You have your books and your newspapers, and your politics and your
railroads to occupy you. I wrote when I was well."
And Pen looked at her, and blushed again, as he remembered that,
during all the time of her illness, he had never written to her, and
had scarcely thought about her.
In consequence of his relationship, Pen was free to walk and ride with
his cousin constantly, and in the course of those walks and rides,
could appreciate the sweet frankness of her disposition, and the
truth, simplicity, and kindliness, of her fair and spotless heart.
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