It
seemed as if his tired baby brain was somehow aware that Jim was gone,
for he begged to have him back in a sweet little way of entreaty,
infinitely sad.
"Bruvver Jim?" he would say, in his questioning little voice--"Bruvver
Jim?" And at last he added, "Bruvver Jim--do--yike--'ittle Nu--thans."
At this Miss Doc felt her heart give a stroke of pain, for something
that was almost divination of things desolate in the little fellow's
short years of babyhood was granted to her woman's understanding.
"Bruvver Jim will come," she said, as she knelt beside the bed. "He'll
come back home to the baby."
But nine o'clock and ten went by, and only the storm outside came down
from the hills to the house.
Hour after hour the lamp was burning in the window as a beacon for the
traveller; hour after hour Miss Dennihan watched the fever and the
weary little fellow in its toils. At half-past ten the blacksmith, the
carpenter, and Kew came, Tintoretto, the pup, coldly trembling, at
their heels. Jim was not yet back, and the rough men made no
concealment of their worry.
"Not home?" said Webber. "Out in the hills--in this?"
"You don't s'pose mebbe he's lost?" inquired the carpenter.
"No, Jim knows his mountains," replied the smith, "but any man could
fall and break his leg or somethin'.
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