“You here, Mary,” said Mark, in a sharp whisper.
“Of course she is, boy,” cried the old man testily. “Woman’s place—and girls grow to women—look finer than a queen on a throne, seated by a sick-bed.”
“Yes,” assented Mark. “How is he?”
“Couldn’t be worse,” said Master Rayburn. “There, go and beat the dogs, and if one of them bites you, we’ll make up another bed, and nurse you too; won’t we, Mary?”
“Oh, no, no, Mark dear; don’t, pray don’t you get hurt,” whispered the girl wildly.
“He won’t get hurt much,” said Master Rayburn. “Come to stay?”
“No,” said Mark, as he made the old man’s eyes twinkle by going on tip-toe to the bedside, and gently taking Ralph’s right hand which he held for a few moments, and then laid it back.
“Needn’t put it down in such a hurry, boy,” whispered the old man. “Didn’t hurt you, did it?”
“Poor fellow! No,” sighed Mark. “But I must go. Father has ordered me to go down the river to the Cliff, to try and get all the Darley men together to come and help in the attack.”
“What!” cried Master Rayburn; “Sir Edward has told you to do that?”