“No, father.”
“The man’s mad. Got a bee in his bonnet. Going to ruin his son’s prospects in life. He sha’n’t do it. How can he be so absurd! I’ll go to him as soon as I can move.”
“Feel a little easier, father?” said Joe, going to the head of the couch, and pressing his hand upon his father’s brow again.
“Yes, much easier, my boy,” said the invalid, placing his hand upon his son’s, and holding it down for a few moments. “Feels cooler, doesn’t it?”
“Ever so much, dad, and not so damp.”
“Yes, I feel like a new man again. Thank you, Joe—thank you, my boy. Haven’t been fretful, have I?”
“Oh, just a little, father, of course. Who could help it?”
“I was afraid I had been, Joe. But, as you say, who could help it? Didn’t say anything very cross to you, did I?”
“Oh, no, nothing to signify, dad. But, I say, I am glad you’re better.”
“Thank you, my boy, thank you,” said the Major, drawing his boy’s hand down to his lips and kissing it. “Just like your poor, dear mother, so calm and patient with me when I am suffering. Joe, my boy, you will have to be a doctor.”