“I’m afraid I’m not treating him correctly,” he whispered. “I think I will send Bruff over to the station to telegraph for help.”
But Aunt Hannah shook her head.
“If you cannot cure him, dear,” she said firmly, “no one can. No, do not send.”
“But he is so very bad,” whispered the doctor; “and when this fever passes off he will be as weak as a babe.”
“Then we must nurse him back to strength,” said Aunt Hannah. “No, dear, don’t send. It is not a case of doubt. You know exactly what is the matter, and of course how to treat him for the best.”
The doctor was silenced and stood at the foot of the bed, while Aunt Hannah laid her cool, soft hand upon the sufferer’s burning brow.
Neither aunt nor uncle troubled to think much about the causes of the boy’s injuries; their thoughts were directed to the nursing and trying to allay the feverish symptoms, for the doctor was compelled to own that his nephew’s condition was grave, the injuries being bad enough alone without the exposure to the long hours of a misty night just on the margin of a moor.
It was not alone in the chamber that sympathetic conversation went on, for work was almost at a standstill in house and garden. For the three servants talked together, as they found out how much Vane had had to do with their daily life, and what a blank his absence on a bed of sickness had caused.
“Oh, dear!” sighed Martha, “poor, poor fellow!”
The tears were rolling down her cheeks, and to keep up an ample supply of those signs of sorrow she took a very long sip of warm tea, for the pot had been kept going almost incessantly since Vane had been borne up to his bed.