The vicar’s frown grew more perplexed. “And the doctors are pleased?”
“Oh, yes.”
“How do they account for the change?”
“They give no explanation, but I have a theory that in a sort of way the person who is really responsible for it—I know you’ll laugh at me—is that dear fellow, John Smith.”
“Oh, indeed,” said the vicar in a hard, dry voice.
“I know you don’t altogether approve of him, Uncle Tom, but he’s such a charming, whimsical, gentle creature, just a little mad they seem to think in the village, but Gervase has always made a friend of him.”
“So I understand.” The voice was that of a statesman; the frown was growing portentous.
“Well, every day since Gervase came home the dear fellow has picked a bunch of flowers on the common and brought them here. And every day he has begged to see Gervase. A fortnight ago, when Gervase had been out of his room twice, I decided that he might. I felt sure no harm could come of it. So he came and it seems he talked to Gervase of a poem he had written—I didn’t hear the conversation so I can’t throw much light on it—but the next day he returned with the poem. And the amazing part is that Gervase read it, and dating from then he seems to have found a new interest in everything.”
“And you are inclined to attribute the change in the first place to the effect of this man’s verses?”
“Yes. It seems a little absurd. But in my own mind I can’t help thinking that the improvement is entirely due to John Smith.”