He laughed, but there was a meaning under the joke. Mr. Sauls' vulgar old mother had a large place in the heart which, as well as the brains, he perhaps inherited from her. He pulled her towards him, and kissed her.
"Thanks!" he said. And Rebecca Sauls knew quite well that the thanks were not so much for the "shoves uphill" as for the "bad memory".
"I wish I could give you all you want, my son," she said sadly.
If her own life's blood could have given him his heart's desire, he should have had it, of course.
He recovered tolerably steadily after that, bending his endeavours to that end with a sort of dogged patience, obeying the doctor's orders, and refusing to allow himself to get excited, because he was so determined that he would get well.
He was not a sweet-tempered invalid, like Mr. Deane. He had been strong all his life, and it exasperated him to feel himself weak and dependent; but his mother rejoiced rather than otherwise when George was cross: it was a good sign, she thought, and better for him.
Only on one point he insisted—whatever might be the risk of moving him, he would not stay one day longer than was absolutely necessary under the farm roof.
Every one remonstrated, even Tom; who, though he had no great liking for Mr. Sauls, felt it a slur on their hospitality that any guest should leave them before he was fit to walk across a room.
"If ye aren't comfortable, ma'am, I'm sorry," said Tom. "But doan't 'ee let him go fro' this and die on the road! It ain't fair on us; and, considerin' I picked your son up, ye might listen to me."
"He wants to see you," said Mrs. Sauls, nodding her head with an emphatic little gesture. She had tried to dissuade George from this interview, but he would have it. "I am afraid I must ask you to go to him, Mr. Thomas; but please remember that he is ill."