“Yes, yes,” said the doctor, who was smiling and very courtly; “but Dr Braydon forgot that his son has been with me over five years, madam, and he has grown bodily, and mentally, I hope.”
“To be sure. Shake hands, Dominic. Why, you ought to be Irish, with a name like that.”
“Lady O’Hara!” cried Nic excitedly, as he grasped the hand extended to him. “Do you know my father?”
“Oh, don’t make jam of my fingers, boy, and I’ll tell you,” cried the lady, with a pleasant grimace. “Ah, that’s better. Yes, of course I know him. He lives next door to us, about a hundred miles away.”
The doctor chuckled, and Nic stared.
“Sit down, Braydon, sit down,” said the doctor. “Ah! that’s better,” said the lady, in a fresh, cheery way. “Well, now, look at that, doctor. Here am I, come at his father’s wish to take care of him, and he’s big enough to take care of me.”
“But—I beg your pardon,” cried Nic—“you know my mother, madam?”
“To be sure I do, and the two girls; and here’s a batch of letters I’ve brought.”
“Oh, tell me, please,” cried Nic excitedly, taking the letters with trembling hand,—“my mother and Janet and Hilda, what are they like?”
“Gently, gently,” cried the lady; “where will I find breath to answer your questions? Why, the poor boy’s like an orphan, Dr Dunham, living all these years away from home.”