"Well, my boy," said he--ever since the accident he had addressed
Bressant thus--"you look in a better humor with yourself this morning.
You'll be well used to this room before you leave it," he continued,
with kindly gravity, as he felt his patient's pulse. "You'll know all
about the number and relative position of the bars and bunches of
flowers on the wall-paper opposite, and how many feet and inches it is
from the window-frame to the room-corner, and which pane of glass is the
crookedest, and how much higher one post of your bedstead is than the
other; and plenty more things of that kind. And, to tell you the truth,
my boy, I don't believe a course of such studies, by way of variety,
will do you any harm. Now, let's look at this collar-bone of yours.--O
Cornelia! you'd better be finishing your packing, hadn't you?" he added,
to his daughter, who was leaning on the back of his chair, sympathizing
with the sick man to her heart's content. She walked obediently to the
door, but, before she disappeared, turned and sent back a smile charged
with all the warmth of her ardent, womanly nature. Bressant got the
whole benefit of it; and it lingered with him most of the morning.
"How long must I be here?" inquired he, after Cornelia was gone.
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