"Never mind about that, till by and by;" a soft voice whispered into my ear; and soft lips felt nice, and warm, upon my cheek. "Are you better, oh, darling Tommy, are you better?"
"I should be, if I could blow my nose," I said; "there is nothing the matter with me, except that. But what is all this roaring noise, if you please? Is it coming down again? If it does, I am done for."
"No, dear! There is nothing coming down at all, except the waves of the sea. There is a heavy ground-swell. But none of it can come near you, dear Tommy."
"The Professor said there would be a ground-swell," I answered, with some nerve of memory touched. "There seems to be nothing, that he does not know."
"He seems not to have known everything, this time. Did he know that the rock would come down upon Laura, and must have killed her, but for you?"
"The rock come down? Oh, I remember now! Something came down. But it was all my fault. And perhaps I have killed her. Oh, please to let me die, if I have killed beautiful Laura!"
"Hush! You are not to excite yourself. You have not killed Laura; you have saved her life. She is not hurt at all, or at least very little; not a quarter so much as you are, my poor darling. Here, you are to take this, as soon as you can swallow."
She put some vessel to my lips; and I saw large dark eyes, and a trembling smile, and fair cheeks flowing with a flood of tears. Then I swallowed something warm, and said—"Oh, you must be Laura!"
"No, I am not. I am Laura's mother—your dear lady, as you used to call me. Now, rest a few minutes, and you will be better. You must not try to get up, by yourself; nor even with my help, till the Professor has examined you. He is up at the Inn, with darling Laura, who cannot be induced to go home, until she hears that you are well enough to come with us. I sent a boy for him, the moment you revived. Here he comes. He will soon tell us all about you. Don't be afraid; you are a hero, not a goose."
I felt more like a goose, and one going to be cooked, when my learned patron, after some kind words, began to make search for my injuries. By calling, he was a physician; and if he had only stuck to art, and discarded science, made the most of his talents, and the least of his genius, and preferred the twinkles to the broad light of knowledge; doubtless he would have been making his twenty thousand a year, with a baronetcy, and the fame that breathes its last with its owner. And the laying of his fingers on my poor body would have cost fifty guineas, instead of nothing but some groans.