“Um-hm. Pretty well, considerin', thank you. Been for a stroll up Washin'ton Street, have you? Or a little walk on the Common, maybe?”
The elaborate sarcasm of these questions was intended to be withering. Mr. Brown, however, did not wither. Neither did he blush.
“I have been,” he said, “down at the boathouse. I knew you were in safe hands and well looked after, so I went away. I couldn't remain here and hear you suffer.”
“Hum! HEAR me suffer, hey? Much obliged, I'm sure. What have you been doin' there all this time? I hoped you was—that is, I begun to be afraid you was dead. Thought your sympathy for me had been too much for you, maybe.”
Brown mournfully shook his head. “It was—almost,” he said, solemnly. “I think I dropped asleep. I was quite overcome.”
“Hum! Better take a dose of that 'Stomach Balm,' hadn't you? That'll liven you up, I'll guarantee.”
“No, thank you. The sight of you, well and strong again, is all the medicine I need. We must keep the 'Balm' in case you have another attack. By the way, I notice the dinner dishes haven't been washed. I'll do them at once. I know you must be tired, after your illness—and the exertion of showing your guests about the lights.”
Atkins did not answer, although he seemed to want to very much. However, he made no objection when his helper, rolling up his sleeves, turned to the sink and the dish washing.
Seth was silent all the rest of the afternoon and during supper. But that evening, as Brown sat on the bench outside, Atkins joined him.
“Hello!” said Seth, as cheerfully as if nothing had happened.