“You take a deal of trouble about me.”
“I do,” was the dry answer.
“It is very good of you, but—”
“You would as lieve it was anybody else; but your other friends have left you to die like a dog,” said Robinson sarcastically. “Well, they left you when you were sick—I'll leave you when you are well.”
“What for? Seems to me that you have earned a right to stay as long as you are minded. The man that stands by me in trouble I won't bid him go when the sun shines again.”
And at this precise point in his sentence, without the least warning, Mr. Fielding ignited himself—and inquired with fury whether it came within Robinson's individual experience that George Fielding was of an ungrateful turn, or whether such was the general voice of fame. “Now, don't you get in a rage and burst your boiler,” said Robinson. “Well, George—without joking, though—I have been kind to you. Not for nursing you—what Christian would not do that for his countryman and his old landlord sick in a desert?—but what would you think of me if I told you I had come a hundred and sixty miles to bring you a letter? I wouldn't show it you before, for they say exciting them is bad for fever, but I think I may venture now; here it is.” And Robinson tore off one by one the twelve envelopes, to George's astonishment and curiosity. “There.”
“I don't know the hand,” said George. But opening the inclosure he caught a glance of a hand he did know, and let everything else drop on the bed, while he held this and gazed at it, and the color flushed into his white cheek. “Oh!” cried he, and worshipped it in silence again; then opened it and devoured it. First came some precious words of affection and encouragement. He kissed the letter. “You are a good fellow to bring me such a treasure; and I'll never forget it as long as I live!”
Then he went back to the letter. “There is something about you, Tom!”
“About me?”
“She tells me you never had a father, not to say a father—”