“I think it went ‘clear though’—the open window; but, Fritz, I hope you are not in the habit of carrying fire-arms. It is a very dangerous thing to do.”
“Well, I never did carry ’em, and I guess I sha’n’t begin now; though they ain’t any danger. Pooh! It scares Rosetta ’most into fits jest to see a fire-arm.”
The aged air of experience, and the manly contempt for feminine weakness was so amusing to the doctor that he felt repaid for his night’s trouble, just to have witnessed it. However, he decided to improve the opportunity by exercising the authority which Mrs. Kinsolving had placed in his hands when she left the Pickels for her sea-side sojourn. He had not used it theretofore, believing that undue restriction would only set the active young brains of his charges to inventing new and possibly more hazardous amusements than any of which he had heard; but the unrestrained use of rifles and pistols—that must be suppressed at once.
“You have come near doing great harm by your carelessness, little Fritz; and, as a reminder of it, I think I shall have to forbid your using your weapons any more, until some of your relatives return. I am sorry, but—”
“What makes you do it, then?” demanded Fritz, coolly interrupting what he foresaw would be a long lecture. If he had to be punished, he liked to be at once, and have done with it. He didn’t like long-drawn ceremonies of any sort.
“For the good of the world at large,” answered the physician; “now you skip to bed; and I would advise that you sleep in your own apartment. I don’t think Luke is the best intimate you could have found.”
The mention of Luke brought the full force of the doctor’s punishment to mind. “You mean—you mean I can’t go hunting woodchucks to-morrow?”
“Not a woodchuck,” laughed the doctor; but Fritz saw that the laugh covered a firm decision. His face fell as it had not done, even when bathed in tears over his possible wounding of his sister. Girls, in Fritz’s estimation, were as plenty and about as valuable as blackberries; but—woodchucks! The tears with which he burrowed his curly head into his pillow five minutes later were bitter indeed.
Having convinced himself that nobody had suffered real damage, and having given Paula a simple restorative for her startled nerves, the weary physician rode away, and left the household at The Snuggery to get what rest it could.
But Octave could not sleep. There was that upon her mind which prevented. Yet this unusual state of things was not occasioned by any anxiety about Paula, or that evening’s experience. Finally, to lie still became impossible, and, rising, she wrapped herself in the counterpane from the bed she now enjoyed alone, since Paula, at the doctor’s suggestion, had been promoted to the honor of occupying “grandmother’s room.” There she could sleep undisturbed as late as nature craved the rest. “After a good sleep she will be as fresh as new,” the doctor had told them.