“Papa, he is better. Alvar says he will get well.”
Half a dozen hasty questions and answers, then Mr Lester put Jack away from him and shut his door.
They could hardly believe that the relief was more than a respite, but the gleam of hope brightened as the day advanced. Cherry slept again, and woke, able to speak and say that he was better.
“And I must tell you, sir,” said Mr Adamson, afterwards, “that it is in a great measure owing to your son’s good nursing.”
Mr Lester turned round to Alvar, who was beside him.
“I owe you a debt nothing can repay. I can never thank you for my boy’s life,” he said, warmly.
“Ah, do you thank me? You insult me!” cried Alvar, suddenly and fiercely. “Is he more to you than to me—my one friend—my brother—Cherito mio!” And, completely overcome, Alvar clasped his hands over his face and dashed out of the room.
Jack followed; but his admiration of Alvar’s self-control was somewhat shaken by the sort of fury of indignation and emotion that seemed to stifle him, as he poured out a torrent of words, half Spanish, half English, walking about the room and shedding tears of excitement.
“I say,” said Jack, “they won’t let you go in to Cherry next, and then what will he do?”
Alvar subsided after a few moments, and said, simply and rather sadly,—