"Tommy, dear," Brigit said quietly, suddenly seeing her way clear, "I am
wiring the Master to come to see you. He will play for you. Now give me
your violin and lie down like a good boy."
Under the impression that she was Mrs. Champion, the housekeeper, but
perfectly satisfied with her words, he gave up the fiddle obediently and
lay down. The doctor nodded his approval and left a few moments later to
send the telegram to Joyselle. And Brigit sat down by the bed and
waited.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The weather had changed suddenly, and although it was only the 14th of
September, it was cold and cheerless that afternoon.
Brigit, who had been sent out for a walk, tramped steadily down the road
towards the village, her hands in her jacket pockets, her chin buried in
her little boa.
Tommy was very ill; the London doctor had confirmed old Dr. Long's
opinion: an over-developed mind in an under-developed body. These words
in themselves were not very alarming, but Brigit's heart had sunk as Sir
George uttered them.
"Is he--is he going to die?" she asked abruptly. Sir George hesitated.
"We scientists are supposed to be atheists, my dear young lady," he
returned, looking at his watch, "but I believe in God.
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