Welsh looked after him for a moment without saying anything, then turned toward home.
And Mr. Heywood, hurrying on, stopped at the grocery and gave certain directions.
“And see here, Fisher,” he concluded, “you’ll send the bill to me, but that’s nobody’s business but our own. I want them to think that the road’s paying for it.”
Half an hour later, a grocer’s boy knocked at the door of the Welsh cottage and handed in a great basket of dainties, and Allan was soon smiling over a bowl of steaming oyster soup, with Jack and his wife and Mamie grouped about the bed watching him enjoy it. And I don’t believe there is any more exquisite pleasure in the world than that which they experienced in that moment!
The winter days were clear and bright, and Allan found a rare enjoyment in lying back in the great chair which Mrs. Welsh had padded expressly for him, and looking out over the yards and watching the busy life there. He was sitting so one afternoon when some one turned in at the gate and mounted the path to the house.
“Why, it’s Misther Schofield!” cried Mary, and hastily dusted off a chair with her apron, in honour of the distinguished visitor,—not that it needed dusting.
The train-master came up with smiling face.
“How are you, Mrs. Welsh?” he asked. “And how is the invalid?”
He sat down by the side of the chair, and, reaching over, gave Allan’s hand a hearty clasp.
“Do you know, I am ashamed of myself for not getting here before this,” he went on, genially, “but I have kept posted about you, because I wanted to know when you were ready to go back to work.”