“Oh, Austin, how can you be so rude?” whispered the girl reproachfully. “Do go with this good-natured lad,” she pleaded. “You know how dreadful it is when you get a bad throat.”
“As though I’d loaf about his dirty old kitchen and be rolled up in smithy blankets!” said Austin, in extreme disgust.
He spoke low, but Frances knew that Jim must hear, and she coloured deeply in her distress. Her brother’s over-fastidiousness on some points always made her impatient, but now she felt that he was both foolish and ungrateful in repelling kindly advances. She allowed Austin to pass, and throw himself on the rug before the fire at Florry’s feet; then she turned to Jim, again apprehensive that his feelings might have been hurt by his guest’s unmannerly words and ungracious bearing.
Jim’s eyes were on Austin; Jim’s lips smiled as, without a touch of jealousy, he recognized in the handsome, attractive boy the evidence of the better training and opportunities denied to himself.
“Boys are always so tiresome, aren’t they?” said Frances, seeing with relief that Jim’s face betrayed no sense of injury. “My brother won’t be taken care of, you see; though I’m sure if he does have a sore throat, he won’t like it.”
“Oh, I hope he won’t be ill, Missy,” said Jim. “He looks so—so game, and happy-like. I’d think it wasn’t easy to coddle him.”
“It isn’t,” said Frances soberly; “and I don’t want him to be a molly—only I wouldn’t like him to be ill again. I’m ever so much obliged to you for offering to help him.”
“You’ve no call to thank me, Missy. It wouldn’t have been much to do. The pony’s safe in the shed,” added the young smith shyly; “I’ll give him a rub down and a feed by and by.”
“You are good,” said Frances. “Oh, do you think there’s any chance of getting home to-night? All our friends will be so anxious if we don’t return till morning, though it’s very kind of your grandfather to say we may camp here.”
“Indeed and you mustn’t worry, Missy,” said Jim. “Sometimes there’s folks passes here much later than this; and if you’d not mind mounting into a waggon again—”