“Getting on splendidly, my dear. Slept pretty well. It is a dreadful place for any one to be in, but I suppose he is accustomed to it by this time.”
“And is he no worse for coming to meet us, Aunt Felicia?” Ruth asked, her voice betraying her anxiety. She had relieved the old lady of her cloak now, and had passed one arm around her slender waist.
“No, he doesn't seem to be, dearie. Tired, of course—and it may keep him in bed a day or two longer, but it won't make any difference in his getting well. He will be out in a week or so.”
Ruth paused for a moment and then asked in a hesitating way, all her sympathy in her eyes:
“And I don't suppose there is anybody to look after him, is there?”
“Oh, yes, plenty: Mrs. Hicks seems a kind, motherly person, and then Mr. Bolton's sister runs in and out.” It was marvellous how little interest the dear woman took in the condition of the patient. Again the girl paused. She was sorry now she had not braved everything and gone with her.
“And did he send me any message, aunty?” This came quite as a matter of form—merely to learn all the details.
“Oh, yes,—I forgot: he told me to tell you how glad he was to hear your father was getting well,” replied Miss Felicia searching the mantel for a book she had placed there.
Ruth bit her lips and a certain dull feeling crept about her heart. Jack, with his broken arm and bruised head rose before her. Then another figure supplanted it.
“And what sort of a girl is that Miss Bolton?” There was no curiosity—merely for information. “Uncle Peter was so full of her brother and how badly he had been hurt he hardly mentioned her name”