"Now, Tom," said the Rector pleasantly, "I'm going to read to old Mrs. Green in the next ward; I will leave Miss Harebell to talk to you."
He went away. A sudden fit of shyness seized Harebell. She sat down on a chair by the bedside, and for a moment there was silence.
"Does it hurt very much?" she asked at length.
"Pretty bad just now," was Tom's reply, "but 'tisn't the hurt, 'tis bein' tied by the leg—and having slops to drink, does for me! Now if only you could hand me a tankard o' frothy ale, I'd be spry enough!"
Harebell looked at him gravely.
"But you aren't going to drink any more, Tom?"
"Must drink something—an' tea be just p'ison to my system!"
"You're not going to take any more beer, Tom; we settled you wouldn't!"
"Ay! Don't you call the name to me, for my mouth be fair clamouring for it."
"I expect God made you break your leg!" said Harebell thoughtfully. "He did it to keep you from going to the 'Black Swan'!"