“No; I don’t want ’em. I say, how long will the doctor be? I want to know if I mayn’t get up.”
“I can tell you that, Maria. Not yet. Try and be patient and trust to us.”
“Oh, very well,” said the girl petulantly; “but it’s horrid lying here so long.”
“Do you think you could read a little if I brought you a book?”
“No. It only makes me tired. I hate reading.”
“Hush! Here is Mr Elthorne.”
As she spoke a tall, keen-looking, youngish man approached the bed. He was handsome and with a strong resemblance to his father; but his high forehead wore a peculiarly thoughtful, intent look, and there were the lines in his face made by constant devotion to some study, and a something in his eyes which suggested that he was thinking deeply of an object which had eluded his mental grasp.
“Good-morning,” he said quietly. “How is your patient?”
“A little nervous and restless, sir. Ought she not to have change?”
“Yes,” said the young surgeon, taking the patient’s hand and watching her intently. “As soon as we can move her, but we must hasten slowly. You will be glad to get back—home, Maria?”