It was some time before the son of the family made his appearance in the Allen household again. When he did come, it was to bring a face so utterly miserable, and a pair of feet so incapacitated for further movement, that his mother began to seriously question if she had done the wise thing to allow him to be the deliverer of the several messages.
The first thing to do now, however, was to get the boy to bed; so with the aid of Ann's hot oatmeal gruel, George Edward was assisted by father and mother on either side, up to his pretty room, where he was rubbed down, pretty much as one would perform that same operation on a tired horse, till each separate and distinct joint seemed supple and elastic as was their ordinary condition, and the boy was tumbled into bed, fast asleep before his head touched the pillow. Mr. and Mrs. Allen looked at each other as they sat down in the library, and drew a long breath.
"What shall we do with such a boy?" cried the mother. "He seems to carry the burdens of other boys, old people, animals, and everything that comes in his way."
"Let him alone," said Father Allen shortly.
"Oh! I wouldn't dare say anything," exclaimed Mother Allen, alarmed at being misunderstood; "I was only mentioning the fact."
"You asked a question," said Father Allen, who was nothing if not exact; "you asked 'What shall we do with him?'"
"And I ask it again," said Mrs. Allen, rubbing her forehead in a perplexed way, "whatever in the world shall we do with him?"
"And I answer in the same words that the immortal Mr. Dick employed on a similar occasion to Miss Betsey Trotwood's question, 'Wash him and put him to bed.'"
"We have done that," said his wife with a laugh, "now, what next?"
"Oh! as to that," replied Father Allen with a yawn, "I must confess, I don't see my way clear to furnishing you with an additional answer. The only one I should suggest is, let us go to bed."