me.

Chesney entered, hesitating--stood near the door. Sophy, who had her arm
about Bobby as he lay against the pillows in his crib, beckoned him to
come forward.

"Now, now, my little man ... my _brave_ little man...." she murmured in
the child's ear, her cheek to his--encouraging, soothing him. Chesney
came and got awkwardly on his knees beside the crib. He felt thankful to
make himself smaller in the boy's eyes. Timidly he ventured to steal one
of his great hands towards the little fist, clutched in Sophy's laces.

"How are you, little man?" he said, "gentling" his voice as to some shy
animal. "Won't you say 'how d'ye do' to dada?"

The boy, trying so hard to "be a man," regarded him with wide eyes, and
the most touching, wavering smile of courage on the verge of tears. Then
he looked with desperate appeal up at his mother. The set, wavering
smile grew pale.

"Dada _too_ st'ong...." he said. "Bobby _so_ little...."

Chesney put down his face upon the crib and wept. Sophy knew that he
was weeping, though no sound came from him. Then she told Bobby that
"poor dada had been very, very ill"--he wasn't "too st'ong" any more.
And taking the little unwilling hand in hers, she "poored" his father's
bent head with it. Chesney turned his face presently, kissed the little
hand, then got up silently and left the room. Sophy went to him, five
minutes later, and found him face down on his bed, sobbing like a child.
His own nerves had gone completely under the dreadful shocks of the past
ten days.

XLII

Bobby's attack of jaundice was soon over. After that glimpse of his
father, so gentle and so very kind--kinder than Bobby had ever known
him--the boy began to recover with the quick resilience of childhood. By
the following Monday he was quite fit to travel, Camenis said.

Physically, Chesney was much better also. Camenis had succeeded in
routing the sciatica. A strong tonic had somewhat restored his appetite.
Altogether, he felt more fit than he had believed possible under the
circumstances. At first, Camenis had wanted him to take hot hip-baths
mixed with sea-salt. But here Chesney rebelled. He loathed hot baths. He
demanded either a quick, cold tub in the morning, or else his usual swim
in the lake. Camenis and he tussled for some hours over this question.
Finally, it was agreed by the physician that as this September was such
an unusually warm one, Chesney might have a very short swim during the
hottest hours