"Of course he will live now," I said.
To-day Nucky is entirely rational, though quite weak. Only the nurse sees him. Killis, Taulbee, Keats, Hosea and Joab came in for news of him to-day, returning immediately on their long walks.
Friday.
I was permitted to visit Nucky to-day. He is still forbidden to talk, but he smiled his old bright smile, and I read Pilgrim's Progress to him until he fell asleep.
Sunday Morning.
All the boys came back to school yesterday from their vacation, several with gifts for me,—a dozen eggs from the little Salyers, a fine ground-hog-hide from Joab ("it'll make you shoe-strings enough to last a lifetime," he said), a handsome hen from Taulbee, four huge sweet-potatoes from Hosea, and an elegant green glass breastpin from Geordie. Of course the one topic of conversation last night was "Trojan" and his performance, in which they take endless pride. "I allow Basil Beaumont will sure make up a song-ballad about him now," said Absalom.
They also brought the news that Dalt Cheever is probably "aiming to live",—thank heaven if it is true, for I cannot bear that Nucky's hands should be stained with human blood. Doubtless, however, it will be a keen disappointment to him.
Monday.
As I was about to leave the cottage for the hospital last night after supper, the boys were all bewailing the fact that they had not been able to stay at home over Old Christmas. I asked them what they meant by "Old Christmas."
"You brought-on women," said Taulbee, "thinks New Christmas is real Christmas; but it haint. Real Christmas comes to-morrow, on the sixth of January; and to-night is right Christmas Eve."