Other questions I asked, but Mary declined to answer and I had, perforce, to lie still, with nothing to do but follow her with my eyes wherever she went.
For one more day, she kept me on my back, bullying me and tyrannising over me, when I felt strong enough to be up and about my business.
Sometimes, when she came near enough, I would lay my hand over hers. She would permit the caress as if she were indulging a spoiled baby. Sometimes, I would lie with my eyes closed in the hope that she might be tempted to kiss me, as she had done before; but Mary Grant saw through the pretence and declined to become a party to it.
The Rev. Mr. Auld came during the early afternoon of that Sunday. He examined my bruises and contusions with professional brutality. He winked, and ordered me up, dressed and into a wicker chair,—for the lazy, good-for-nothing rascal that I was. And,—God bless his kindly old heart!—he told Mary I might smoke, in moderation.
He did not remain long, for he said he had been called to attend another and a very urgent case of a malady similar to mine, at Camp No. 2.
"Why!—that's Joe Clark's Camp," I said.
"I am well aware of the fact," said he. "If you ask any more questions or venture any more information, I shall order you back to bed and I shall cancel your smoking permit."
As he was going off, he came over to me and whispered in my ear:—
"Man!—I would give something for the power of your right arm."
All the remainder of that afternoon, Mary read to me, as I browsed [Transcriber's note: drowsed?] in an easy chair among cushions and rugs, stretching first one leg and then the other, testing my arms, trying every joint, every finger and toe, to satisfy myself that I was still George Bremner, complete in every detail.