Leonard was in the room. He got as far as, "The name of Juliet's father—"
"I won't hear it!" cried poor Roberts, kicking out his right foot, in which the pain was steely cold.
"We want you to go and see him on Monday," said Leonard.
"Then you may want!" and he flung out the left foot in which the pain was red-hot.
The housekeeper signed to Leonard to leave the invalid to himself. When this attack was over Roberts would be himself again—kind and gentle and polite.
But there was no chance of his being able to go to London to make arrangements for the move of the Mitchell family. Mr. Burnet was in the habit of leaving a great deal to Roberts, being himself old and ailing, and easily upset. On the Sunday, a lovely, sweet, clear day, it was plain that Roberts would not be of any use for another week or more.
Mr. Burnet and his son were walking back from evening service, and enjoying the calm of Sunday evening. Everything had been beautiful; the hymns, the sermon in church; the hymns of the birds and the sermons of the harvest, in the fields.
"Delicious!" said Mr. Burnet, pausing as he entered his own large grounds. "How I wish poor Roberts was well enough to enjoy it all. I am afraid his exertions at the oar, and his exposure to the evening damps, have brought on this painful attack. The only thing I can do is to go to town myself to see this Thomas Mitchell, and I really do not feel up to it."
The father and son walked on side by side. Presently Leonard said, "Do you think I could go and make the arrangements with Mitchell?"
Mr. Burnet stopped in his walk, and leaning on his stick said, "Upon my word, Leonard, I do not see why you could not."