Certainly he was not, for Dyke had sprung up, and was staring across the place at where, half-turned from him, Emson lay gazing at the golden east, where the sun was about to rise.
“Little un: are you going to get up?”
Dyke sprang from his bed, darted to his brother, caught him by the shoulder and pulled him round so as to look him in the face.
“What’s the matter, sleepy head?” said Emson, smiling.
“Why, it’s himself again,” cried Dyke excitedly. “Oh Joe, old man, you are better and no mistake. I haven’t heard you speak like that since I went to old Morgenstern’s.—Oh!”
“What is it?” cried Emson.
“I’m not quite awake yet. Yes I am, but I forgot that he was here, and about the diamonds; and—Joe, Joe, old chap, I don’t believe precious stones ever did so much good before.”
“Don’t talk about them, boy,” said Emson, holding his brother’s hand tightly in his. “But I do seem as if a terrible load had been taken off body and brain. I feel this morning that I shall see home again; and I have talked about going, but never felt that I should see it till now.”
“Then hooray for being rich! But, I say!”
“What?”