“Has he moved, Aunt?” said Neil softly. She started violently.
“O Neil, dear!” she exclaimed, “I did not hear you. No, no, no,” she cried, with a burst of sobbing, “he’s dying! My poor brother! What shall I do?”
“Be patient and helpful, Aunt, dear. We must not think of our now sufferings now.”
“Yes, my dear, and I will, indeed I will. But, Neil, my love,” she whispered, as she caught his hand and held it in both hers; “don’t think me unkind. I know what a good, clever boy you are, but don’t you think you ought to send for a real doctor?”
Neil smiled sadly as he bent down and kissed the agitated woman, and thought of his diplomas, and the trust and faith of the eminent surgeon who had chosen him for assistant in the ward of the great London hospital.
“Yes, Aunt, dear,” he said quietly. “You are quite right. I have sent for Sir Denton.”
“Oh, that’s very good of you, my dear. You are so young; and I was afraid, dear, that you would be too proud to accept any help, and—”
“Hist!” said Neil quickly; and he stepped to his father’s side, for he had seen a quick, trembling motion about the eyes, and the injured man began to mutter.
“Quite out of the question, my lad—I have made other arrangements for my child.”
He uttered a heavy sigh.