He well might ask this. He was in a room which, as far as beauty of furnishing went, was as unlike his own little bed-closet as Paradise might be supposed to be unlike a kitchen garden. The prettily dressed mantelpiece, the cheerful paper on the walls, the mirrors, the brackets, the pictures and flowers, all combined to cause Sandie to think he was in a dream.
Besides, by the window-side, sewing some white seam, sat a beautiful child, that Sandie thought must be a fairy.
But his own mother was not far away; she was seated knitting near his pillow.
“The Lord’s name be praised,” she said fervently. “He has heard my prayer, and my laddie will live. But ye maunna speak, my dearie, ye maunna talk. The doctor says, ‘No.’ And the doctor kens best.”
“But, mother, one question: What has happened?”
Little Maggie May now dropped her white seam and advanced towards the bed.
The tears were chasing each other adown the child’s face.
“Larnie, our pony, ran off,” she said simply; “father was driving, but couldn’t hold him. We were close to Cauldron Hill, and would all have been killed; but you jumped up and catched the bridle and stopped us. Only you got hurt. Father says God sent you, you dear, dear boy.”
Sandie did not speak for a few moments. He had but little breath.
“I think,” he said, “that God must have sent me. But don’t cry, because I’ll soon get better.”