This was the case, for Uncle James seemed happier when he could get Tom alone, and hold his hand for some time; and he always ended by saying in a whimpering voice--

"Bless you, my boy, bless you!"

"Which is very nice," said Tom to himself more than once, "but it will sound sickly, and as if he was very weak. I can't make it out. It seems as if the worse he is, the kinder he gets to me, and as soon as he feels better he turns disagreeable. Oh, I am so tired of it; I wish he'd get well."

But all the same Tom never showed his weariness, but tugged and b.u.t.ted the invalid chair through the deep sand of the lanes, and sat on banks close by it reading the newspaper to his uncle in the most patient way, till the invalid was tired, and then dragged him back to Heatherleigh to dinner or tea.

One evening, after a week thoroughly devoted to the visitor, who had been more than usually exacting in the length of his rides, declining to hold the handle and guide himself, making Tom tug him up hills and through heavy bits of lane, along which the boy toiled away as stubbornly as a donkey, Uncle Richard came upon him in the garden, when he was free, for the invalid had gone to lie down.

"Well, Tom," he said.

"Well, uncle," cried the boy, looking up at him rather disconsolately.

"All our telescope-making seems to have come to an end."

"Yes, uncle."

"I suppose you mean to go back with Uncle James to town?"

"Is he going back to London?" cried the boy eagerly.

"Yes, before long; but you need not be so eager to go."

Tom stared at him.

"You are tired of Heatherleigh then?"

"Tired, uncle?"

"Yes; you've made me feel quite jealous. It's all Uncle James now. But there, it's boy-like to want plenty of change."

"But I don't want change."

"Not want change? Why, you show it every day."

Tom stared again, and then burst out in his abrupt way--

"Oh, uncle! you don't think I want to go back?"

"You were asking eagerly enough about it just now."

"Yes--because--I--that is--oh, uncle, don't be cross with me; I can't help it."

"No, I suppose not, Tom."

"But you don't understand me. I don't want to leave here; I wouldn't go back to London on any consideration. I--there, I must say it, I--I-- there, I hate Uncle James."

"What!" said Uncle Richard, looking at the boy curiously. "You are never happy without you are along with him."

"But that's because he is ill, and I thought you wanted me to be attentive to him."

"Oh!"

"Yes, that's it, uncle. He never liked me, and always used to be cross with me, and now when he's very bad he's always so fond of me, and keeps me with him, so that I can't get away, and--and I don't like it at all."

"That's curious, isn't it, Tom?"

"Yes, uncle, I suppose it is, and I can't make it out. I don't understand it a bit. It's because he is ill, I suppose, and is sorry he used to be so rough with me. I wish he would get quite well and go back to London."

"Humph! And you would rather not go up to attend to him?"

"I'd go if you ordered me to, but I should be very miserable if I had to--worse than I am now. But, uncle, I am doing my best."

"Of course, Tom. There, I did not mean it, my boy. You are doing your duty admirably to your invalid relative. I hope we both are; and sick people's fancies are to be studied. I don't think though you need be quite so blunt, Master Blount, though," added Uncle Richard, smiling.

"I'll try not to be, uncle."

"And talk about hating people. Rather rough kind of Christianity that, Tom."

"I beg your pardon, it slipped out. I hope I don't hate him."

"So do I, my lad. There, go and do everything you can for him while he stays. He is certainly much better, and fancies now that he is worse than he is."

"I'll do everything I can, uncle," said Tom eagerly.

"I know you will, my boy; and as soon as we have set him on his legs again, you and I will grind the new speculum. The case with the two discs came down this afternoon while you were out with the chair."

"Oh!" cried Tom eagerly. "You haven't unpacked them without me, uncle?"

"No, and I do not mean to. We'll leave them where they are till our visitor has gone, and then we shall have to work like black-fellows to make up for lost time."

"Yes, uncle," cried Tom, rubbing his hands.

"No; like white-fellows," said Uncle Richard, smiling, "and I think we shall get on faster."

The next morning there was a surprise. It was Sat.u.r.day, and about eleven, just when Tom had dragged round the invalid chair ready for the invalid, he saw a sprucely-dressed figure, with a "b.u.t.ton-hole" in his coat, get down from the station fly, pay the man, and push open the gate with a cane, whose ivory crutch handle was held by a carefully-gloved hand.

For a few moments Tom was astounded; then he came to the conclusion that it was not very wonderful for a son to come down to see his sick father, and he left the chair, and went to meet his cousin.

"Hallo, b.u.mpkin," said Sam contemptuously, "how are you?"

"Quite well," said Tom hesitatingly, and then frankly holding out his hand.

"All right; quite well, thanks," said Sam, tapping the extended hand with the cane. "Don't want to dirt my glove. What have you been doing--digging potatoes?"

"Only tidying up the chair for Uncle James."

"Hands look grubby. You should wash 'em. I say, what a beastly out-of-the-way place this is. Where's Uncle d.i.c.k? I only had a coffee and roll before I left London. Can I have some breakfast?"