"Perhaps I ought to do it!" said Mark, in a strangled voice. "I started the train, y' know! So I'll take all the blame on myself!"
Somehow the other boys thought poor Mark, for all his shock of red hair, looked exactly like one of the brave knights of old setting forth to battle. Old Peter, the doctor's horse, eager for his stable comforts and shelter, brought the gig round in fine style, and Doctor John alighted quickly, with the upward glance at Mother's window which he never forgot.
"Why, sonny," he began cheerily, then halted as, with a tweak at his Father's sleeve, Mark beckoned him indoors. "Is there anything the matter with Mother? Quick; speak, boy!" The doctor's voice was sharp with fear. But Mark could not speak, and Doctor John, with a heart of lead, followed the boy into the house.
"In there, Father! It's Clary, and it's all my fault!" Mark's voice had come back, but it was a mere whisper, and he pointed to the close-shut door.
Doctor John was on his knees beside the bed
Turning the door-handle quickly, Doctor John nearly fell backwards. Over the bed, on which lay a little figure, bent the brother to whom he had not spoken for three years, with his ear laid close to the little heart, listening to its fluttering beats, and one hand raised warningly at the sound of the opening door. The next moment the wonder-shock had passed. Without a word Doctor John was on his knees beside the bed, and Doctor George, glancing up, saw that it was Clary's Father who had entered. Then he stood up straight, and would have retreated hastily, but his forefinger was tight in the clutch of a weak, small hand. Doctor George was chained to the spot; he dared not move.
"She opened her eyes once, and gripped my finger like that!" he whispered awkwardly.
The Father did not speak, nor even look away from the white, still face. But, stretching across the bed, he laid a detaining hand on his brother's coat-sleeve.