“And my brother? There is nothing wrong?” The alarm in her voice brought him to himself.
“Wrong? Not a bit. At least, not much.”
“Not much? Tell me at once, please.” With an imperious air the young lady lifted her head and impaled the doctor with her flashing brown eyes.
“Well,” said the doctor in halting confusion, “you see, he met with an accident.”
“An accident?” she cried. “You are hiding something from me, Mr. Martin. My brother is ill, or—”
“No, no, not he. An Indian hit him on the head,” said the doctor, rendered desperate by her face.
“An Indian?” Her cry, her white face, the quick clutch of her hands at her heart, roused the doctor's professional instincts and banished his confusion.
“He is perfectly all right, I assure you, Miss Cameron. Only it was better that he should have his sleep out. He was most anxious to meet you, but as his medical adviser I urged him to remain quiet and offered to come in his place. His wife is with him. A day's rest, believe me, will make him quite fit.” The doctor's manner was briskly professional and helped to quiet the girl's alarm.
“Can I see him?” she asked.
“Most certainly, in a few hours when he wakes and when you are rested. Here, Billy, take Miss Cameron's checks. Look sharp.”