low reply, “when you didn’t know about that!”
Meg held his hand closer.
“Didn’t the people at the hospital ask who you were?” she said.
“I told them I hadn’t any home, and my name was John Thomson,” he answered. “Of course they [146] ]thought I was nothing but a farm boy. Well, I was there a long time—about two months, I think; it seemed like years.”
Meg’s face was pale, and her eyes full of hot tears.
She pictured the poor lad lying in that hospital bed week after week, strange faces all around him, strange hands ministering to him,—weak, racked with pain, and yet with almost incredible strength of mind persevering in his determination not to let his family know anything.
“How could you help sending for us?” she said, in a low tone.
He moved his head a little restlessly.
“I knew you were all sick of me, and ashamed of me. I know I’m not like the rest of you, and I kept saying I’d get well and work hard and do something to make you respect me before I came back.”
Respect him! In Poppet’s eyes Nelson was less of a hero, Gordon had infinitely less claim to glory.