“Murray’s in the river!”
And they pointed to the spot where the poor boy had sunk.
With such a cry as the boys long remembered, the visitor had plunged into the water, and had caught the boy, who had risen for the last time, by the arm.
And the next thing that the boys knew was that a white, dripping form was carried through the playground into the house.
Then a whisper went round, “It was his father.”
Then a whispered question, “Is he dead?”
And Thompson shuddered as he heard it.
But Reginald did not die; he opened his eyes to find his father clasping his hand. At first he could remember nothing, then he looked round anxiously: “Is the knife safe? I went to pick up my knife.”
Then he closed his eyes and remained for a long time silent; and when he spoke again, it was in the wild ravings of delirium.
The shock had been too much for the delicate boy. Fever came on, and it was weeks before he could be moved home. And then he was ordered to the South, and Italy was the chosen place in which Mr. and Mrs. Murray and their two children should sojourn until Reginald should have completely recovered his health.