Even in that brief instant, Mr. Cameron could not but observe the change which those few short months had wrought in the face of Everard Houston, the high-born son of wealth and culture, the pet of society; it had matured wonderfully; alert and keen, yet grave and thoughtful, he looked as though he had found a deeper and broader meaning to life than he had ever dreamed of in his luxurious eastern home.
“My boy!” exclaimed Mr. Cameron, hastening toward him, “are you sure you have escaped without serious injury?”
“Quite sure,” Houston replied, limping slightly, as he advanced to meet his uncle, “my arm was hurt, and I am somewhat scratched and bruised and a little weak, but otherwise, sound as ever.”
“Thank God for that! I don’t mind the loss of the property if you are safe; all the way out here, my boy, I have been reproaching myself for ever allowing you to come out to this country.”
“My dear uncle,” Houston replied, with peculiar emphasis, “I think you will soon find you have reason to be very glad and grateful that I came.”
Mr. Cameron introduced the two surgeons and the nurse; “I feared,” he said, “from your sending for these gentlemen that you might be hurt far more seriously than I knew.”
“No,” said Houston, “but the one who has nearly sacrificed his own life in helping to save mine, needs their best skill, and I sent for them on his account.”
“That was right,” replied Mr. Cameron, “all that money can do shall be done for him,” while one of the surgeons said, “We will see our patient at once, Mr. Houston, if you please.”
“You will see him very soon,” Houston replied with grave courtesy, “but there are reasons why my uncle must first see him, and alone.”
Mr. Cameron looked surprised, but silently followed Houston into the room which had been occupied by the two brothers, but which was now prepared for him. Then observing something peculiar in Houston’s manner as he closed the door, he asked: