“Father, it is not true,” cried Jessie, running to his side, “your mind is perfectly clear.”
“I’m afraid it ain’t, my dear,” he said. “But your Uncle Max won’t be hard on me. No sending to asylums or that sort of thing. Just a friendly visit from a doctor or two, and I should be soon put right.”
“Whatever the cleverest medical man I could procure—a specialist on your particular ailment—said, I should go by,” replied Max sadly.
“There, mother—there, Jessie, what did I tell you?” cried Dick, brightening up. “Blood is thicker than water. I always said it was. He’ll do what’s right.”
“With Heaven’s help I will,” said Max solemnly; while, unable to contain his disgust, Tom walked to the window.
“Of course he will,” cried Dick; “it’ll be all made up now, and we shall be the best of friends—eh?”
“Yes, dear Richard—the best of friends,” said Max, glancing at Mrs Shingle, and then shrugging his shoulders and raising his eyes.
“But about my business,” said Dick uneasily. And he began to bite the bits of tough skin at the sides of his fingers.
“Richard, are you mad?” cried Mrs Shingle excitedly. “You shall not talk about it. You have kept it secret so long, even from your own wife and child, and you shall not talk about it to him.”
Dick smiled at her rather vacantly.