"Oh, well," said Mother, "we must make the best of it."
When Jim was carried in, dreadfully white and with set lips whose red had faded to a horrid bluey violet colour, Mother said:—
"I am glad you brought him here. Now, Jim, let's get you comfortable in bed before the Doctor comes!"
And Jim, looking at her kind eyes, felt a little, warm, comforting flush of new courage.
"It'll hurt rather, won't it?" he said. "I don't mean to be a coward. You won't think I'm a coward if I faint again, will you? I really and truly don't do it on purpose. And I do hate to give you all this trouble."
"Don't you worry," said Mother; "it's you that have the trouble, you poor dear—not us."
And she kissed him just as if he had been Peter. "We love to have you here—don't we, Bobby?"
"Yes," said Bobby,—and she saw by her Mother's face how right she had been to bring home the wounded hound in the red jersey.
