“Ungrateful!”
“Yes, ungrateful, and trying to die.”
“Oh!” said Don smiling.
“Nice mess I should have been in if you had. No church, no clergyman, no doctor, no sexton. Why, you young dog, it would have been cruel.”
Don smiled sadly.
“I am really very grateful, sir; I am indeed, and I think by to-morrow or next day I shall be strong enough to go.”
“What, and leave me in the lurch just as I’m so busy! Why, with the thought of having you fellows here, I’ve been fencing in pieces and making no end of improvements. That big Maori can cut down as much wood as two men, and as for Jem Wimble, he’s the handiest fellow I ever saw.”
“I am very glad they have been of use, sir. I wish I could be.”
“You’re right enough, boy. Stop six months—a year altogether—and I shall be very glad of your help.”
This set Don at rest, and he brightened up wonderfully, making great strides during the next fortnight, and feeling almost himself, till, one evening as he was returning from where he had been helping Jem and Ngati cut up wood for fencing, he fancied he saw some animal creeping through the ferns. A minute’s watching convinced him that this was a fact, but he could not make out what it was. Soon after, as they were seated at their evening meal, he mentioned what he had seen.