Some time before Maguffin left, he
had determined, with his Marjorie's permission, to give up being shaved
and let his beard grow, and now the beard was there, long, brown and
silky, a very respectable beard. But the face above it was very pale
yet, and the cruel knife wounds were still sore, and the whole man
enfeebled in limb by long bed-keeping. One pleasant day, far on in
September, the doctor allowed him to rise, and, between the Squire and
Mr. Terry, he was raised up and dressed. Then they carried the wasted
form out into the autumn sun, and laid him on a couch on the verandah.
Marjorie and all the little Carruthers came to see him, with bouquets of
garden flowers. Timotheus ventured to pay his respects, and even
Tryphena came round to congratulate him on his recovery. "Shall I read
Wordsworth to you, dear?" asked Miss Carmichael, ironically.
"Marjorie," answered a beard-muffled voice, "your single word's worth
more than all in that old duffer's poems," which the lady took as an
indication that her patient was improving.
"They are all depending on us to fix the day, Eugene; when will you be
strong enough?"
"Any time, Marjorie; what's to-day?"
"Saturday, you foolish man, don't you smell the preparations for
Sunday?"
"And the New York steamer sails on Saturday?"
"Yes.
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