Aunt Hannah laughed and cried together, as she fondled Vane.
“I’ll go and fetch you a cup of tea, my dear. Don’t move.”
The doctor took a step forward, and gave Vane a slap on the back.
“Cup of tea—brought for him. Come along, boy. Aunt would spoil us both if she could, but we’re too good stuff, eh? Now, prize-fighter, give your aunt your arm, and I’ll put some big black patches on your nose and forehead after tea.”
Vane jumped up and held out his arm, but Aunt Hannah looked at him wildly.
“You don’t think, dear, that black patches—oh!”
“No, I don’t,” said the doctor gaily; “but we must have some pleasant little bit of fiction to keep him at home for a few days. Little poorly or—I know. Note to the rectory asking Syme to forgive me, and we’ll have the pony-carriage at six in the morning, and go down to Scarboro’ for a week, till he is fit to be seen.”
“Yes,” said Aunt Hannah, eagerly, “the very thing;” and to her great delight, save that his mouth was stiff and sore, Vane ate and drank as if nothing whatever had been the matter. The next morning they started for their long drive, to catch the train.
“Third-class now, my boy,” said the doctor, sadly; “economising has begun.”
“And I had forgotten it all,” thought Vane. “Poor uncle!—poor aunt! I must get better, and go to work.”