"Would you, Kenneth?"

"Yes, ever so much: hanging about one, and wanting to coddle one like an old woman! I hate it!"

"I'm very sorry. I did my best to make you comfortable."

"You don't do your best. It bores me."

"Shall I read to you a bit now?"

"No! Bother your old books! Who wants to lie here and be read to about your jolly old Hentys, and Friths, and Percy Groves? I don't want books; I want to go out on the mountain, or in the boat, and have a rattling good sail. Here, I shall get up."

Max seized him and pressed him back, for he was very weak.

"The doctor says if you get out of bed, you'll faint again, same as you did yesterday."

"All right!" said Kenneth, struggling feebly; "I want to faint the same as I did yesterday. It will be a change."

"Nonsense! you shall not get up."

Kenneth lay back panting.

"Oh, how I do hate you!" he cried. "Just you wait till I get strong again. I'll serve you out. Scoody and I will duck you, and get you on the pony, and--I know! Just you let me get a chance, and I'll send you sailing down the falls just the same as I did."

"No, you will not."

"Oh, won't I? you'll see. If you knock me about again like this, I'll wait my chance, and pepper you with grouse-shot, and see how you like that. I say!"

"Yes, Kenneth."

"Don't say 'Yes, Kenneth,' say 'Yes.' Look here: why doesn't Long Shon come to ask how I am?"

"He does, every morning."

"He doesn't! a miserable old duck's legs!"

"But he does. I told you so."

"That you didn't. You take advantage of my lying here, and--Oh, I say, you might shut that window, it does make it so hot."

Max rose to go and close the window; but Kenneth caught his hand and held it, looking up at him wet-eyed and wistful.

"Maxy, old chap," he said softly.

"Yes."

"I am such a beast!"

"Nonsense!"

"I am. Don't take any notice of what I say. I feel as if I must be disagreeable, and say all sorts of things I don't mean, and all the time I know what a good un you are, sitting in this nasty, stuffy old room, that smells of physic enough to knock you down."

"I like sitting with you."

"You can't, when you might be out with Tavvy and Scood. I'd give anything to go, and you must want to go, but you're such a good-hearted old chap, to sit there and read for hours, and talk to a poor miserable beggar who's never going to be well again."

"Why, you are getting on fast."

"No, I'm not. I'm sick of these jellies, and beef-teas, and slip-slops.

I want some beef, and salmon, and grouse pie, and to get strong again.

I say, Maxy, wasn't I a fool?"

Max was silent.

"You're too good a chap to say it, but you know it was just out of bounce, and to show off, and it served me right. I say, you're not put out at what I've been saying?"

"Not a bit."

"Call me a beast, and then I'll be satisfied."

"But I shouldn't be," said Max, laughing.

"Yes, do call me a beast, and forgive me. I don't mean it, for I do like you, Maxy, honour bright!"

"I want you to like me," said the lad gravely.

"Well, I do. I'm as sorry as can be that I tried to frighten you, and laughed at you. I've been sorry lots of times since I've been lying here; and you will not take any notice of what I said?"

"Is it likely?" cried Max eagerly.

"Not with you, I suppose," said Kenneth thoughtfully; "but I'm afraid I should think a lot about it."

"I shall not," said Max, "so say no more."

"Then let's talk about something else; it keeps me from thinking how miserable and weak I am. I say, old Scood always pretended to be so very fond of me; don't you think he might have come up and seen me?"

"You know he has always been trying."

"Oh, ah! so I do. I forgot."

"He climbed up to the window and got in one night."

"Scoody did? You never told me that."

"I never told anybody."

"And he got down again all safe? Why, it was more risky than climbing up a rock. You tell him he must not do it again."

"I have told him."