“No, sir, not a bit. There are worse things than dogs, sir.”
“Yes, Tom,” said the Vicar, tightening his lips, “a great deal.”
That night Pete’s eyes opened, and he began talking rapidly about falling trees and sand, and the black darkness; but his grandmother, worn-out with watching, had fallen asleep, and there was no one to hearken but the dog, which reached over every now and then to lick his face or hands.
And at the touch the injured, delirious lad grew calmer, to drop off into his feverish sleep again, while, when Tom came early the next morning, it was to meet the doctor coming away.
“Don’t go in,” he said; “you can do no good; quiet and time are the only remedies for him.—Ah, good-morning, Mr Maxted.”
For the Vicar was up early too, and had come to see after his worst parishioner.
“Good-morning, doctor. May I go in?”
“Yes, if you will be quiet.”
The Vicar stole in, stayed for some time, and then came out as silently as he had gone in, to look inquiringly at the doctor.
“You think he will die?” he said.