"Why, my dear old fellow," said the doctor in an annoyed tone, "do you think I am a miracle man? You are not supposed to step right out of the ether into the broad light. You are a dandy, sure enough. Aren't these preachers the limit? Growling because he can't see when he is plastered up in ten inches of cotton."
The minister laughed, softly, happily. "It was foolish. I see it now, of course. But it gave me a terrible jar. I was sure I was blind."
So while the girls sat beside him the doctor and MacCammon went away to leave them alone for a while.
"The real tug will come when he gets home," said the doctor. "He has no business to use his eyes for at least six months. He ought to play for fully half a year. But he does not know how to play. That is the worst of these preachers—they get so used to the grind, grind, grind, that they can't let up. What we'll do with him for the next six months is more than I can figure out."
"The girls will think of something. They are wonderful girls."
"Yes, very. Rosalie in particular," said the doctor.
"Doris in particular also," supplemented MacCammon quickly. "He can preach, can't he? I imagine he will need the money."
"Yes, he can preach if he's got it in his head. He can't do any reading."
"It will not be easy. But we can leave it to Doris all right."