“Hurts,” I said, in an ill-used tone.
“Naturally,” he cried with a laugh. “There, don’t be down-hearted about a little pain. I came and had a look at you, but you were asleep. There, do you see how we are getting ready for your Indian friends? We hope to give them such a severe lesson that they will leave us alone in future.”
“Then you think they will attack us, father?” I said. “Some one just now told me that all was quiet, and that the Indians had gone.”
“That is the very reason why I think they will attack us, my boy, and the sooner the better, George. It must come, and I should like them to get their sharp lesson and go; for I want to hang this up for an ornament or to turn it into a pruning-hook.”
He touched his sword as he spoke, and turned to Morgan, who came up.
“How is she?”
“Doctor says she’s very feverish, sir, but he thinks she is going on all right.”
“I am very, very sorry, Morgan,” said my father, sadly. “I feel as if I were to blame for bringing you people out to this wilderness.”
“I teclare to cootness, sir,” began Morgan, in a high-pitched Welsh fashion; but he checked himself and smiled. “There, sir, don’t you talk like that. Wilderness? Why, it’s a pleasure to do a bit of gardening here. See what rich deep soil it is, and how the things rush up into growth.”
“Very poor consolation for your wife, Morgan,” said my father, dryly. “All that does not make her wound the more bearable.”