“Oh, pretty well, thank you, father,” Morris answered, in that rather restrained voice which was natural to him when conversing with his parent. “I think, I really think I have nearly perfected my aerophone.”
“Have you? Well, then, I hope you will make something out of it after all these years; not that it much matters now, however,” he added contentedly. “By the way, that reminds me, how are our two guests, the new parson and his daughter? That was a queer story about your finding her on the wreck. Are they still here?”
“Yes; but the old gentleman is out of bed now, and he expects to be able to move into the Rectory on Monday.”
“Does he? Well, they must have given you some company while you were alone. There is no time like the present. I will go up and see him before I dress for dinner.”
Accordingly Morris conducted his father to the Abbot’s chamber, and introduced him to the clergyman. Mr. Fregelius was seated in his arm-chair, with a crutch by his side, and on learning who his visitor was, made a futile effort to rise.
“Pray, pray, sir,” said the Colonel, “keep seated, or you will certainly hurt your leg again.”
“When I should be obliged to inflict myself upon you for another five or six weeks,” replied Mr. Fregelius.
“In that case, sir,” said the Colonel, with his most courteous bow, “and for that reason only I should consider the accident fortunate,” by these happy words making of his guest a devoted friend for ever.
“I don’t know how to thank you; I really don’t know how to thank you.”
“Then pray, Mr. Fregelius, leave the thanks unspoken. What would you have had us—or, rather, my son—do? Turn a senseless, shattered man from his door, and that man his future spiritual pastor and master?”