"
He knew that. But he knew things I could not know, because I had not
seen them. He had seen things that he saw over and over again when he
tried to sleep. His nerves were shattered utterly. It grieved me sore
not to spend all my time with him but he would not hear of it. He
drove me back to my work.
"You must work on, Dad, like every other Briton," he said. "Think of
the part you're playing. Why you're more use than any of us out
there--you're worth a brigade!"
So I left him on the Clyde, and went on about my work. But I went
back to Dunoon as often as I could, as I got a day or a night to make
the journey. At first there was small change of progress. John would
come downstairs about the middle of the day, moving slowly and
painfully. And he was listless; there was no life in him; no
resiliency or spring.
"How did you rest, son?" I would ask him. He always smiled when he
answered.
"Oh, fairly well," he'd tell me. "I fought three or four battles
though, before I dropped off to sleep."
He had come to the right place to be cured, though, and his mother
was the nurse he needed. It was quiet in the hills of the Clyde, and
there was rest and healing in the heather about Dunoon. Soon his
sleep became better and less troubled by dreams. He could eat more,
too, and they saw to it, at home, that he ate all they could stuff
into him.
So it was a surprisingly short time, considering how bad he had
looked when he first came back to Dunoon, before he was in good
health and spirits again.
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