"Yes! What is it? Who called?"
The doctor was at his side in an instant, and caught his hand. "Harry, my lad," he said, "do you know me?"
The boy stared at him strangely, but he had comprehended the question.
"Know you?" he said. "Yes; why shouldn't I know you? What a ridiculous question! But—Here, what is the matter with that lady? Is it—is it—? My head aches, and I can't think," he added, after looking wonderingly about. "What has been the matter? Doctor Cameron, has some one been ill?"
"Yes, some one has been very ill," said the doctor, laying his cool hand upon the boy's forehead and pressing him back upon the pillow.
"Some one has been very ill! Who is it? Can't be father or Mike. Why am I here? I'm not ill. Here, something hurts me, doctor—something on the wrist. Just look; it hurts so that I can't lift it."
The doctor took hold of the frightfully swollen arm, and made as if examining the injury, saying quietly,—
"Oh, it's only a bite; it will be better soon. I'll put a little olive oil to it. Will you get some, my dear?"
Mrs. Cameron rose from her knees quickly, and hurried out of the room, keeping her head averted so that Harry should not see her face.
He noticed this, and his eyes filled with a wondering look. "I don't understand it," he said. "I'm not at home."