Geordie Nickle lingered after the doctor had taken his departure; but he found it quite impossible to engage Harvey in conversation. "I hae nae doot a' this sair experience'll be for some guid purpose," he began, the face of the saintly man suffused with the goodness of his heart; "only dinna let it be wasted, laddie. A wasted sickness is a sair thing, an' a wasted sorrow's waur—but there's naethin' sae sad as to look intil the face o' death, wi'oot bein' a different man to a' eternity. It's a waesome thing when a soul snatches spoils frae death—an' then wastes them on life, my laddie," earnestness and affection mingling in the eyes that were turned on Harvey's chair.
But Harvey's response was disappointing. "If I could only sleep a little better, Mr. Nickle. I'm really all right except for my nerves. Yes, what you say is very true, Mr. Nickle."
After one or two equally fruitless attempts, the old man seemed to realize the hopelessness of his efforts. "Weel," he said pleasantly, "I maun be gaein'—yon's the kirk bell that's ringin'. Why, there's David," he cried suddenly, looking out of the window; "I'll juist gie ye intil Mr. Borland's care. I think yir mither said she's gaein' till the kirk—we'll gang thegither," as the kindly patriarch made a brief farewell, withdrawing to join Mrs. Simmons and guide her to the house of prayer.
"Hello, Harvey! Why, you're lookin' like a morning-glory," was David's salutation as he drew his chair up beside Harvey's. "I jest thought I'd drop in an' look you over a bit when Madeline an' her mother was at church. Ought to be there myself, I know," he went on, a reproachful smile on his face; "but it's such an elegant mornin'—an' besides, I'm doin' penance. I remembered it's jest two years ago to-day, by the day o' the month, since I traded horses with Jim Keyes—an' I thought mebbe I shouldn't have took any boot—so I thought I'd jest punish myself by stayin' away from the meetin' this mornin'. How're you keepin', Harvey?" he concluded earnestly, his elbows on his knees as he peered into the patient's face.
"I'm not bad," said Harvey—"only a little grouchy. Is that really the reason you're not going to church this morning, Mr. Borland?" he asked, a slight note of impatience in the tone. David might have noticed, indeed, that Harvey seemed ill at ease, and as if he would as soon have been alone.
David stared at him. "That there accident must have bumped all the humoursomeness out o' you," he said, grinning. "No, of course it's not—but Dr. Fletcher ain't goin' to preach to-day. That's the real reason. An' he's got a fellow from Bluevale rattlin' round in his place; can't stand him at all. He's terrible long—an' the hotter, the longer. They say he dives terrible deep; an' mebbe he does—but he comes up uncommon dry," and David turned a very droll smile on his auditor. "The last time I heard him, he preached more'n fifty minutes—passed some excellent stoppin'-places, too," David reflected amiably; "but the worst of it was when he come to conclude—it was like tyin' up one o' them ocean liners at the dock, so much backin' up an' goin' furrit again, an' semi-demi-quaverin' afore he got plumb still. That's the principal reason I'm punishin' myself like this," he added gravely. "Say, Harvey, what's makin' you so kind o' skeery like?—anythin' hurtin' you?"
Harvey cleared his throat nervously. "I say, Mr. Borland," he began nervously, "would you do something for me?"
David, very serious now, drew his chair closer.
"You bet—if I can. What is it?"
Harvey stood up and walked unsteadily towards the table. Then he thrust the little paper the doctor had left into a book. "I wonder if you'd go to the drug-store for me," he began rather huskily, "and get me a little—a little spirits—or something like that; spirits would be the best thing, I think—the doctor spoke of that. I'm just about all in, Mr. Borland—and I think if I were only braced up a little—just to tide me over, you know," he stammered, his courage failing him a little as David's steady eyes gazed into his own.