"I believe he is really sleeping, not unconscious," she whispered. "I think we must keep very, very quiet."
Yetta nodded, tiptoed out of the room, and presently Father Cary's large form passed the window on the way to the stable.
So again was Rosamund's vigil renewed, unbroken through several hours except by faint noises from without, the humming of a locust, the chirps of birds, the homely conversation of some chickens, who had stolen up to the little house, lonely for Mother Cary. She must have dozed, for it seemed only a short time before the kitchen clock struck eleven, and almost at the same moment the doctor stood in the doorway, with Mother Cary behind him.
The doctor's hair had been very much blown by the wind, but it would have taken more than wind to send his smile awry.
"Morning!" he threw towards Rosamund.
She was at once aware that he thought of her only as the child's nurse, oblivious of all that other men saw in her, of her beauty and grace, of the signs of wealth and well-being in her garments and bearing. It amused her, though her smile was, perhaps, a little disdainful.
The boy was better; the doctor could find no serious injuries. "I am sure the car barely touched him," Rosamund said, and the doctor nodded.
"But it sometimes takes so little to shock the life out of a little underfed, weakened body like this," he said. "There's nothing to fight with, nothing to build on."
Rosamund's hand went over her heart. "Then you think," she asked, "you think that he will not——"
"On the contrary, I am very sure that he will," the doctor smiled at her. "Mother Cary, here, will teach you how to make him well."