'I hope so,' answered the doctor. 'Do you think he will do well? He
has plenty of courage, at all events, and that is a fine thing.'
'Ow ay,' answered Robert; 'he's no ill aff for smeddum
(spirit)--that is, gin it be for ony ither body. He wad never lift
a han' for himsel'; an' that's what garred me tak till him sae
muckle. He's a fine crater. He canna gang him lane, but he'll gang
wi' onybody--and haud up wi' him.'
'What do you think him fit for, then?'
Now Robert had been building castles for Shargar out of the hopes
which the doctor's friendliness had given him. Therefore he was
ready with his answer.
'Gin ye cud ensure him no bein' made a general o', he wad mak a
gran' sojer. Set's face foret, and say "quick mairch," an' he'll ca
his bagonet throu auld Hornie. But lay nae consequences upo' him,
for he cudna stan' unner them.'
Dr. Anderson laughed, but thought none the less, and went home to
see how his patient was getting on.
CHAPTER XIV.
MYSIE'S FACE.
Meantime Ericson grew better. A space of hard, clear weather, in
which everything sparkled with frost and sunshine, did him good.
But not yet could he use his brain. He turned with dislike even
from his friend Plato. He would sit in bed or on his chair by the
fireside for hours, with his hands folded before him, and his
eyelids drooping, and let his thoughts flow, for he could not think.
And that these thoughts flowed not always with other than sweet
sounds over the stones of question, the curves of his lip would
testify to the friendly, furtive glance of the watchful Robert.
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