It was Mr. Bright who spoke. He sat in an invalid chair on the side porch, propped up by soft pillows. Donald, the man of all work, had just returned from the post-office with the information that there were no letters.
Mr. Bright was getting well rapidly, but the lines of care were plainly to be seen upon his brow. He started up with a deep sigh.
“Nearly two weeks since I received any word,” he murmured to himself. “How slowly the time drags! Can it be possible that he was too hopeful and that the Aurora has proved worthless after all?”
He passed his hand over his brow.
“If that is so what is to become of us? I am getting too old to work, and he has no trade to which he can turn his hand.”
As he concluded, the latch on the gate was lifted, and, looking up, the sick man saw Dr. Tangus enter the yard, and walk up the gravel path.
“Good-morning, Mr. Bright,” he said stiffly.
“Good-morning, doctor,” was the low reply. “Take a seat on the bench. I am sorry there is not a chair here.”
“This will do very well.” The learned man paused for a moment. “How are you feeling?” he asked.