“You are tired, little one,” said my lady. “Go and lie down in my room, and hear what Medlicott and I can decide upon in the way of strengthening dainties for that poor young man, who is killing himself with his over-sensitive conscientiousness.”
“O, my lady!” said I, and then I stopped.
“Well. What?” asked she.
“If you would but let him have Farmer Hale’s barn at once, it would do him more good than all.”
“Pooh, pooh, child!” though I don’t think she was displeased, “he is not fit for more work just now. I shall go and write for Doctor Trevor.”
And, for the next half-hour, we did nothing but arrange physical comforts and cures for poor Mr. Gray. At the end of the time, Mrs. Medlicott said:
“Has your ladyship heard that Harry Gregson has fallen from a tree, and broken his thigh-bone, and is like to be a cripple for life?”
“Harry Gregson! That black-eyed lad who read my letter? It all comes from over-education!”
CHAPTER XI.
But I don’t see how my lady could think it was over education that made Harry Gregson break his thigh, for the manner in which he met with the accident was this:—