"No, no--not a word; you won't let them get to me if they come?"
"They won't come, Trall. Believe me, they think you dead."
"Dead?" echoed Trall, his wits wandering. "Dead, dead, yes, these many years. Drabble killed my soul. Dead--yes, the man is dead; the beast lives on."
With tactful words and many promises, Mallow managed to calm him and dispel his morbid mood. The man was not really so ill as worn with fatigue, and stupefied with terror. Rest, and a belief in his safety, were the medicines he needed, and these were now forthcoming. His narrow escape seemed to have turned his thoughts towards religion, for he requested the use of a Bible with childish eagerness. Mallow left him grappling desperately with the Psalms, striving to extract hope from the more comforting.
"I am glad the poor man is better," said Olive, when she heard Mallow's report; "he seems a harmless creature."
"There is good in him, but circumstances and Drabble have done their best to destroy it."
"Well, let him stay here and rest, Laurence. See, I have the letter for Mr. Brock. We must call on him now. Talking about Dr. Drabble," added Olive, as they stepped out into the crisp air; "I think I ought to call and see his wife, and tell her."
"Do you think that is wise?" asked Mallow, dubiously.
"Of course it is wise; suspense is worse than the truth. Besides, she is without money and food. I had to send provisions to her yesterday. The sooner she understands her position, and makes the best of it, the better."
"How can she make the best of it?"