But there was no riding for Wally, for a while. The next day found him too ill to get up, and the doctor, sent for hastily, talked of shock and over-strain, and ordered bed until his temperature should be pleased to go down: which was not for many a weary day. Possibly it was the best thing that could have happened to Wally. He grew, if not reconciled, at least accustomed to his loss; grew, too, to thinking himself a coward when he saw the daily struggle waged by the two people he loved best. And Norah was wise enough to call in other nurses: chief of them the Hunt babies, Alison and Michael, who rolled on his bed and played with him, while Geoffrey sat as close to him as possible, and could hardly be lured from the room. It was not for weeks after his return that they heard Wally laugh; and then it was at some ridiculous speech of Michael’s that he suddenly broke into the ghost of his old mirth.
Norah’s heart gave a leap.
“Oh, he’s better!” she thought. “You blessed little Michael!”
And so, healing came to the boy’s bruised soul. Not that the old, light-hearted Wally came back: but he learned to talk of Jim, and no longer to hug his sorrow in silence. Something became his of the peace that had fallen upon Norah and her father. It was all they could hope for, to begin with.
They said good-bye to him before they considered him well enough to go back to the trenches. But the call for men was insistent, and the boy himself was eager to go.
“Come back to us soon,” Norah said, wistfully.
“Oh, I’m safe to come back,” Wally said. “I’m nobody’s dog, you know.”
“That’s not fair!” she flashed. “Say you’re sorry for saying it!”
He flushed.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you, Nor. I suppose I was a brute to say that.” Something of his old quaint fun came into his eyes for a moment. “Anyhow it’s something to be somebody’s dog—especially if one happens to belong to Billabong-in-Surrey!”