“We’ll hope so—we’ll hope so,” said the doctor. “You have only to do as you are told, you know. Now, have you a good nurse?” turning to Mrs Lester.
“Yes, we think Mrs Thornton very trustworthy—she was nursery-maid here before she married.”
“There must be as few people about him as possible. No talking and no excitement.”
“But—Alvar will stay?” said Cherry, wistfully. “Father, he came in the night—I want him.”
“Hush, hush, my boy—yes, of course he will stay with you if you like,” said Mr Lester, hastily.
“Of course,” said Alvar, with a curious accent, half-proud, half-tender, as he laid his hand on Cheriton’s.
The foreign brother was the last person whom Mr Adamson expected to see in such a capacity; but if he was inefficient, both he and his patient would probably soon discover it; he looked the most self-possessed of the party, and his manner soothed Cheriton. Mrs Thornton had plenty of practical experience to supply his inevitable ignorance. Cheriton was exceedingly ill; his strength did not hold out against the remedies as well as had been hoped, and he suffered so much as to be hardly ever clearly conscious.
“I was so happy!” he said several times with a sort of wonder, and his father felt that the words gave him another pang.
Mr Lester was threatened with the most terrible sorrow that could befall him, and no mitigation of the agony was possible to him. He thought that his best-loved son would die, and made up his mind to the worst, feeling hope impossible; but he made a conscientious effort at endurance, an effort sadly unsuccessful.
“Eh! my son,” said his old mother, “he is a good lad, take that comfort.”