“Coming, my dear,” cried Mrs Burnet, in answer to the call; and she hurried into the house, leaving the Doctor to write out the directions upon a label, so that Jemmy Carnach—fisherman when the sea was calm, and farmer when it was rough—might not make a mistake when he received his bottle of medicine, and take it all at once, though it would not have hurt him if he had.
“Nice boy!” muttered the Doctor, as he made a noose in a piece of twine and carefully tied the label to the bottle; “but I wish the young plague had been a girl.”
At that moment Vince was standing with one foot upon a stool, so that the knee of his trousers was within easy reach of his mother’s busy fingers, while the bright needle flashed in and out, and the long slit was gradually being reduced in extent.
“Mind, mother! don’t sew it to the skin,” he said laughingly; and then, bending down, he waited his opportunity, and softly kissed the glossy hair close to his lips.
“I say, mother,” he whispered, “don’t have me sent away. Father doesn’t mean it, does he?”
“I don’t think so, my dear; but he wants to see you try hard to grow into a manly, sensible lad.”
“Well, that’s what I am trying to do.”
Mrs Burnet took hold of her son’s none too clean hand, turned it over, and held up the knuckles, which seemed to have been cracked across, but were nearly healed.
“Well, I couldn’t help that, mother,” protested the boy. “You wouldn’t have had me stand still and let young Carnach knock Mike Ladelle about without helping him?”
“I don’t like fighting, Vince,” said Mrs Burnet, with a sigh; “it seems to me brutal.”