“Faith, sir, wonderfully, considering his age.”
“He must be very old now?”
“He's ninety-four, sir, and that's a long age sure enough; but I'm sorry to say that my mother's health isn't so well.”
“Why, what is the matter with her? I'm sorry to hear this.”
“Indeed we can't say; she's very poorly—her appetite is gone—she has a cough, an' she doesn't get her rest at night.”
“Why don't you get medical advice?”
“So we did, sir. Dr. Sexton's attendin' her; but I don't think somehow that he has a good opinion of her.”
“Sexton's a skilful man, and I don't think she could be in better hands; however, Bryan, I shall feel obliged if you will send down occasionally to let me know how she gets on—once a week or so.”
“Indeed we will, sir, an' I needn't say how much we feel obliged to you for your kindness and good wishes.”
“It must be more than good wishes, Bryan; but I trust that she will get better. In the meantime leave the other matters to me, and you may expect Clinton and I up at your farm to look some of these days.”