The sun was blinding, and he blinked.
Mother McNeil and the doctor were standing at the foot of the bed,
and as he rubbed his eyes they laughed.
"It's a merry Christmas you're to have, my son, after all, and it's
wanting to be up and after it you are, if I'm a judge of looks." And
Van Landing's hand, holding the coverlid close to his neck, was patted
understandingly by Mother McNeil. "Last night the doctor was a bit
worried about your head--you took your time in coming to--but I didn't
believe it was as bad as he feared, and it's well it wasn't, for it's
a grand day in which to be living, and you'll need your head. Is it
coffee or tea, now, that you like best for breakfast? And an egg and a
bit of toast, doctor, I think will taste well. I'll get them." And
without answer Mother McNeil was gone.
The doctor sat down, felt his patient's pulse, took his temperature,
investigated the cut on the forehead, then got up. "You're all right."
His tone was one of gruff relief. "One inch nearer your temple,
however--You can get up if you wish. Good day." And he, too, was gone
before Van Landing could ask a question or say a word of thanks.
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