work cut out for you
here below for a long time to come. Through with this business? Pooh!
we've only taken a preliminary canter as yet. That boy's out of the
common in more ways than one, and, cripple or no cripple, he's bound to
lead you all a pretty lively dance before he's done."

CHAPTER VII

AN ATTEMPT TO MAKE THE BEST OF IT

The day had been hot, though the summer was but young. A wealth of
steady sunlight bathed the western front of the house. All was notably
still, save for a droning of bees, a sound of wood-chopping, voices now
and again, and the squeak of a wheelbarrow away in the gardens.

Richard lay on his back upon the bed. He had drawn the blue embroidered
coverlet up about his waist; but his silk shirt was thrown open,
exposing his neck and chest. His arms were flung up and out across the
pillow on either side his gold-brown, close-curled head. As his mother
entered he turned his face towards the open window. There was vigour
and distinction in the profile--in the straight nose, full chin, and
strong line of the lower jaw, in the round, firm throat, and small ear
set close against the head. The muscles of his neck and arms were well
developed. Seen thus, lying in the quiet glow of the afternoon
sunshine, all possibility of physical disgrace seemed far enough from
Richard Calmady. He might indeed, not unfitly, have been compared to
one of those nobly graceful lads, who, upon the frieze of some Greek
temple, set forth forever the perfect pattern of temperance and high
courage, of youth and health.

As Katherine sat down beside the bed, Richard thrust out his left hand.
She took it in both hers, held and stroked the palm of it. But for a
time she could not trust herself to speak. For she saw that,
notwithstanding the resolute set of his lips, his breath caught in
short quick sobs and that his eyelashes were glued in points by late
shed tears. And seeing this, Katherine's motherhood arose and
confronted her with something of reproach. It seemed to her she had
been guilty of disloyalty in permitting her thought to be beguiled even
for the brief space of her conversation with Julius March. She felt
humbled, a little in Dickie's debt, since she had not realised to the
uttermost each separate moment of his trial as each of those moments
passed.

"My darling, I am afraid Dr. Knott has hurt you very much," she said at
last.

"Oh! I don't know. I suppose he did hurt. He pulled me about awfully,
b