Chapter Twenty Eight.
One Last Day on Shore—Bearing up for the East and North—Farewell, Old Seth; Farewell, Plunket.
When at last Rory was so far recovered that he could go on deck with safety, he gazed around him with delight. And well he might, for a more wildly beautiful scene it has been the lot of very few travellers to feast their eyes upon.
“Why,” he cried, with the old glad smile in his eyes, “summer has come again while I have been ill. Oh! such beauty! such grandeur! All the trees in leaf and the flowers in bloom, and not a bit of ice to be seen in the bay. Shouldn’t I like to go on shore once more before we start, to cull a flower, or make a sketch.”
“Well, Rory,” said McBain, smiling at his enthusiasm, “that is a wish we can easily gratify if you really think you are strong enough.”
“Strong!” said Rory, “why, I’m strong enough to fell an ox. You’ve no idea how strong I feel; nor how happy at being strong again.”
“Happy and thankful at the same time, I trust,” said McBain.
“Ay,” put in Allan, “and you’ve no idea, Rory, how delighted we all are to have you on deck again, and really with us, you know.”
Rory smiled with pleasure. He felt the genuineness of the words spoken.