"Active, my dear! Why, he's violent. My knuckles are still aching. Do you really think we ought to let him have ham—and coffee?"
"We might as well," said Rosalind in a hopeless voice. "He'd probably make a scene over toast and tea."
"And he seems so healthy, poor fellow! And so strong!"
"He's deceptive," Rosalind observed hastily.
There was a heavy tramping of feet overhead, then a crash that rattled the dishes in the pantry. Mrs. Witherbee rushed into the hall, stifling a scream. Rosalind bit her lip.
When the mistress of the island returned her eyes were wide with terror.
"He—he carried his trunk up-stairs!" she gasped. "He wouldn't let Stephen or Tom touch it."
"He does those things," said Rosalind unhappily. "He doesn't realize, you know. We can't restrain him by force, but we must do all we can."
"Does he have—attacks?"
"Oh, often. Terrible ones."