“That’s nice. Where’s Norah?”
“I’m here, sweetheart.” Norah took the wasted hand in hers, holding it gently. “Try to go to sleep.”
“Don’t go away,” Geoffrey murmured. “I’m awful sleepy.” He half turned, nestling his head into his mother’s arm. Across the bed the mother’s haggard eyes met Norah’s. But hope had almost died from them.
“If he lives through the night there’s a chance,” the doctor said to David Linton. “But he’s very weak, poor little chap. An awful pity; such a jolly kid, too. And all through two abominable families of tinkers! However, there are no fresh cases.”
“Can you do nothing more for Geoffrey?”
The doctor shook his head.
“I’ve done all that can be done. If his strength holds out there is a bare chance.”
“Would it be any good to get in another nurse?” Mr. Linton asked. “I’m afraid of the mother and Norah breaking down.”
“If they do, we shall have to get some one else,” the doctor answered. “But they wouldn’t leave him; neither of them has had any sleep to speak of since the boy was taken ill. Norah is as bad as Mrs. Hunt; the nurse says that even if they are asleep they hear Geoffrey if he whispers. I’ll come again after a while, Mr. Linton.”
He hurried away, and David Linton went softly into the little thatched cottage. Dusk was stealing into Geoffrey’s room; the blind fluttered gently in the evening breeze. Mrs. Hunt was standing by the window looking down at the boy, who lay sleeping, one hand in that of Norah, who knelt by the bed. She smiled up at her father. Mrs. Hunt came softly across the room and drew him out into the passage.