“You sang beautifully, darling. It was sweet of you to think of it, but now we must let him be quiet. I think perhaps he will go to sleep.”
“Yes, he says he feels lazy! The Major was always fond of his bed!” cried Pixie, skipping blithely down the staircase; but when Bridgie went back to the sick-room her father’s eyes were fixed eagerly on the doorway, and he said in urgent tones—
“Bride, I’m wanting to see O’Brien! Send down for him at once, and when he arrives, let him come up alone. I want to have a talk!”
Bridgie obeyed, in fear and trembling. Had something in the sweet though solemn words of the hymn arrested the sick man’s attention and given him a conviction of his own danger? She sent the faithful Dennis in search of the doctor, and in less than an hour’s time the two old friends were once more face to face.
“O’Brien,” said the Major clearly, “I want you to answer me a question before I sleep. Shall I ever hunt again?” And at this the doctor heaved a sigh of relief, for he had feared a more direct inquiry, and consequently one more difficult to answer.
“Not this season, my boy; you must make up your mind to that. A spill like yours takes a little time to recover. You must be easy, and make yourself happy at home.”
“O’Brien, shall I ever hunt again?”
The doctor put his hand to his head in miserable embarrassment. He had known handsome Jack O’Shaughnessy since he was a boy in knickerbockers. It was more than he could stand to look him in the face and give him his death-warrant.
“Now—now—now,” he cried impatiently, “it isn’t like you, Major, to be worrying your head about what is going to happen next year! Keep still, and be thankful you’ve a comfortable bed to lie on and two of the prettiest daughters in Ireland to wait upon you! When next season comes it will answer for itself, but I’m not a prophet—I can’t foretell the future.”
The Major looked in his face with bright, steady eyes.