“Well, he owes it to me because I was the nearest doctor. Any medical man would have done the same.”
“You do not make enough of your skill.”
“Nonsense, my dear sir! If you are satisfied, I am.”
“And you feel sure that he is mending fast?”
“Oh yes, certain. The head trouble has passed now. Poor lad! he must have had a terrible fall. I went with your forester yesterday, and he showed me the place. It’s little short of a miracle that he escaped alive.”
That night Max was in Kenneth’s room, waiting for him to wake up before he said good-night, for the night was hot and the invalid had gone to sleep.
Max was half leaning out of the open window, gazing at the sea sparkling with light, so that it was hard to tell where the stars ended and the reflections began.
Max was thinking. He had had his regular letters from his father, one of which was in answer to an apologetic epistle on his stopping so long, and hoping that he might be allowed to stay till Kenneth was quite recovered.
Mr Blande’s letter, from the old Inn of Court, told his son that he was not to think of returning, but to make himself at home at Dunroe, and do everything he could to become acquainted with the place and people, at the same time learning all he could about the fishing and shooting.
“Make yourself a country gentleman as fast as you can, and even if the Mackhais are a little stiff and distant with you, do not resent it or take any notice of the slight, but stay.”