"Who is that?"

"That's Nell, caterwauling."

"Your sister has a good voice," remarked Mr. Vernon.

"Oh, yes; Nell sings very well," a.s.sented d.i.c.k, with a brother's indifferent patronage.

"And what does your sister find to do?" asked Mr. Vernon.

"Oh, she does ditto to me," said d.i.c.k. "Fish, boat--boat, fish; but since you've been here, of course----"

He stopped awkwardly.

"Yes, I understand. I must have been a terrible bore to you--to you all," said Mr. Drake Vernon, gravely and regretfully. "I'm very sorry."

"No man can say more; and there's no need for you to say as much, sir,"

remarked d.i.c.k philosophically. "As I said, you have been a boon and a blessing to the women--and I don't mind, now you're getting better and can stand a little noise."

Mr. Vernon smiled.

"My dear fellow, you can make all the row you like," he said earnestly.

"I'm very much obliged to you for looking in--come in when you care to."

"Thanks," said d.i.c.k. "Oh! about the horse. I've had him turned out. I don't think he's hurt much; only the hair cut; and he'll be all right again presently."

"I'm glad to hear it. I needn't say that directly he's well enough, you can----Will you give me that letter again?" he broke off, as if something had occurred to him.

d.i.c.k complied, and Drake Vernon opened it, added a line or two, and placed it in a fresh envelope.

"There was a message I had to give you, but I've forgotten it," said d.i.c.k, as he took the letter again. "Oh, ah, yes! It was from my sister.

She asked me to ask you if you'd care to have some books. She didn't quite know whether you ought to read yet?"

"I should. Please thank your sister," said Vernon.

"Anything you fancy? Don't suppose you'll find Nell's books very lively.

She's rather strong on poetry and the 'Heir of Redclyffe' kind of literature. I'll bring you some of my own with them. Mamma, being a Wolfer, goes in for the _Fashion Gazette_ and the _Court Circular_, which won't be much in your line, I expect."

"Not in the least," Mr. Vernon admitted.

"So long, then, till I come back. Sure there's nothing else I can do for you, sir?"

He went downstairs--availing himself of the invalid's permission to make a noise by whistling "Tommy Atkins"--and Nell looked in at the French window, as he swept a row of books from the shelf of the sideboard.

"d.i.c.k, what an awful noise!" she said reproachfully, and in the subdued voice which had become natural with all of them.

"Shut up, Nell; the 'silent period' has now pa.s.sed. The interesting invalid has lifted the ban, which was crushing one of us, at least. He thanks you for your offer of literature, and he has recovered sufficiently to write a note."

As he spoke he chucked the letter on the table, and Nell took it up and absently read the address.

"Mr. Sparling, 101 St. James' Place," she read aloud.

"Rather a swell address, isn't it?" he asked. "Interesting invalid looks rather a swell himself, too. I did him an injustice; there's nothing of the commercial traveler about him, thank goodness! And he's decidedly good-looking, too. But isn't he white and shaky! I wonder who and what he is? Now I come to think of it, he was about as communicative as an oyster, and left me to do all the palaver. You'll be glad to hear that he admired your voice, and that he inquired how you pa.s.sed your time; also, that he was shocked when I told him that you whiled the dragging hours away by dancing the cancan, and playing pitch and toss with a devoted brother."

Nell laughed, and blushed faintly.

"What books are you taking, d.i.c.k? Let me see."

"No, you don't! I know the kind of thing you'd send--'The Lessons of Sickness; or, Blessings in Disguise,' and the 'Pilgrim's Progress.'"

"Don't be an a.s.s, d.i.c.k!"

"I'm taking some of my own. Nell, you can post this letter. Yes, I'll--I'll trust you with it. You'll be a good girl, and not open it, or drop it on the way," he adjured her, as he climbed upstairs with the books.

"Here you are, sir. Hope you'll like the selection; there's any amount of poetry and goody-goody of Nell's; but I fancy you'll catch onto some of mine. Try 'Hawkshead, the Sioux Chief,' to begin with. It's a stunner, especially if you skip all the descriptions of scenery. As if anybody wanted scenery in a story!"

"Thanks," said Mr. Vernon gravely. "I've no doubt I shall enjoy it." But he took up one of Nell's books and absently looked at her name written on the flyleaf--"Eleanor Lorton." The first name struck him as stiff and ill-suited to the slim and graceful girl whose face he only dimly remembered; "Nell" was better.

CHAPTER IV.

He took up one of the books and read a page or two; but the simple story could not hold him, and he dropped the volume, and, leaning his head on his sound arm, stared listlessly at the old-fashioned wall paper. But he did not see the pattern; the panorama of his own life's story was pa.s.sing before him, and it was not at all a pleasing panorama. A life of pleasure, of absolute uselessness, of unthinking selfishness. What a dreary pilgrimage it seemed to him, as he lay in the little bedroom, with the scent of Nell's flowers floating up to him from the garden beneath, with the sound of the sea, flinging itself against the cliffs, burring like a giant b.u.mble bee in his ears. If any one had asked him whether his life had been worth living, he would have answered with a decided negative; and yet he was young, the G.o.ds had been exceeding good to him in many ways, almost every way, and there was no great sorrow to cast its shadow over him.

"Pity I didn't break my neck," he muttered. "No one would have cared--unless it were Luce, and perhaps even she, now----"

He broke off the reverie with a short laugh that was more bitter than a sigh, and turned his face to the wall.

Doctor Spence, when he paid his visit later in the day, found him thus, and eyed him curiously.

"Arm's getting on all right, Mr. Vernon," he said; "but the rest of you isn't improving. I think you'd better get up to-morrow and go downstairs. I'd keep you here, of course; but lying in bed isn't a bracing operation, especially when you think; and you think, don't you?"

"When I can't help it," replied Vernon, rather grimly. "I'm glad you have given me permission to get up; though I dare say I should have got up without it."

"I dare say," commented the old doctor. "Always have your own way, as a rule, don't you?"

"Always," a.s.sented the patient listlessly.

"Ye-s; it's a bad thing for most men; a very bad thing for you, I should say. By the way, if you should go downstairs, you must keep quiet----"

"Good heavens, you don't suppose I intend to dance or sing!" broke in Vernon, with a smile, of irritation.

"No; I mean that you must sit still and avoid any exertion. You'll find that you are not capable of much in the way of dancing or singing," he added, with a short laugh. "Try and amuse yourself, and don't--worry."

"Thanks," said Mr. Vernon.

Then, after a pause, he added: