ever heard from them since the smash."
"What smash?" asked Mr. Vernon, with only faint interest.
"Didn't I tell you? Left the part of Hamlet out of the play! Why, father added a patent coffeepot to the roaster, and lost all his money—or nearly all. Then he died. And we came here, and——There you are, sir; that's the story; and the moral is, 'Let well alone'; or 'Be content with your roaster, and touch not the pot.' Sounds like the title of a teetotal tract, doesn't it?"
"And you are at school, I suppose? No, you are too old for that."
"Thanks. I was trying not to feel offended," said Dick. "Nothing hurts a boy of my age like telling him he isn't a man. No; I've left school, and I'm supposed to be educated; but it's the thinnest kind of supposition. I don't fancy they teach you much at most schools. They didn't teach me anything at mine except cricket and football."
"Oxford, Cambridge?" suggested the invalid, leaning on his elbow, and looking at the boy absently.
"Wouldn't run to it," said Dick. "Mamma said I must begin the world—sounds as if it were a loaf of bread or an orange. I should have 'begun it' long ago if it were. The difficulty seems to be where to begin. I'm supposed to have a taste for engineering—once made a steam engine out of an empty meat tin. It didn't work very well, and it blew up and burst the kitchen window; but that's a detail. So I'm waiting, like Mr. Micawber, for 'something to turn up' in the engineering line. I take in the engineering paper, and answer all the advertisements; but nothing comes of it. Quite comfortable? Shall I shake up the pillow, sir? I know how to do it, for I've seen Nell do 'em for mamma."
"No; thanks, very much. I'm quite comfortable. If you really are desirous of taking any trouble, you might get me a sheet of note paper and an envelope."
"To say nothing of a pen, some ink, and blotting paper," said Dick, rising leisurely.
He brought them and set them on the bed, and Mr. Drake Vernon wrote a letter.
"I'm sending for some clothes," he explained. "May I trouble you to post it? Any time will do."
"Post doesn't go out till five," said Dick. "And we've only one post in and out a day. This is the last place Providence thought of, and I don't think it would have mattered much if it had been forgotten altogether."
"It's pretty enough, too, what I saw of it," said Mr. Vernon.
"Oh, it's pretty enough," assented Dick casually; "but it's precious dull."
"What do you find to do?" asked the sick man, with an attempt at interest.
"Oh, I ride—when I can borrow a horse—and boat and fish—and fish and boat."
At that moment a girl's voice, singing in a soft and subdued tone, rose from below the window.
Mr. Drake Vernon listened for a moment or two, then he asked:
"Who is that?"
"That's Nell, caterwauling."
"Your sister has a good voice," remarked Mr. Vernon.
"Oh, yes; Nell sings very well," assented Dick, with a brother's indifferent patronage.
"And what does your sister find to do?" asked Mr. Vernon.
"Oh, she does ditto to me," said Dick. "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 Dick 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 Dick. "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.
Dick 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 Dick, 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.
"Dick, 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 passed. 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 passed 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, Dick? 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 ass, Dick!"
"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.