The Return of the Native Chapter 11: Part II Repost, Not update, a downton abbey fanfic

***This is not an update. I just saw that some people in the comments were wondering why I deleted this chapter. As of right now, there are no plans to continue this story—I'm just reposting this chapter for people's enjoyment. Also, if I do continue to write part two, it is likely I will rewrite this chapter. This is not an update, just a repost for anyone who wants to read it along with the other chapters. I wish I could post this quietly without getting anyones hopes up, but alas I do not believe that is possible.***

This chapter is set between seasons 5 and 6. Also disclaimer, there's language here that might not be appropriate in today's time, such as the use of the word "gypsy." So, just be mindful of that.

The Return of the Native

Part II

Winter 1925

A young boy stood holding his mother's hand. He reminded Elsie of Hughie in many ways; he was small and looked very determined. His mother had stopped to chat with a group of women, and he seemed eager to keep moving, pulling at her arm and marching in place like a soldier at battle. She ignored his antics, which frustrated him to no end. Finally, he let go—wandering to the post office's front window to take a look inside. Hughie was never quite so independent, certainly not at that age.

Charlie exited the shop with one hand carrying a bulky Braille writer and a thick package in the other. The hand that carried the Braille writer also carried his hat, balanced by two of his fingers. He glanced at the boy—and Elsie wondered if he too saw the resemblance—and then he promptly made his way to Elsie.

She grabbed the package and he muttered his thanks as he adjusted his grip on the Braille writer and put on his hat. The Braille writer was a bit bigger than Hughie's old one, but it came with an attached handle on top to make it easier to carry around. "I feared it might not arrive on time," said Charlie. He fiddled with the buttons on his coat, shivering slightly at the cool February air.

She glanced down at the package. "It didn't," she reminded. "If you remember, Charlie, it was suppose to arrive a week ago."

"Well, it arrived before Monday," he told her. "Let's just be thankful for that."

The women finished their conversation, and the mother went to retrieve her young son from the glass window. The boy happily took his mother's hand again, and together they continued walking. And Charlie and Elsie started toward the other direction.

"Tomorrow's Saint Valentine's Day," said Charlie formally. He lifted his arm for Elsie to grab hold of, and she happily took it. "Do you want to do anything special?"

"What I would like for us to do is spend the day away—go eat lunch at a public house... or maybe visit the house to see how the workers are getting on," she said. "But I know that won't be possible." She paused, and Dr. Clarkson passed them with a smile and tilt of his hat. "I suppose I can cook something up at the cottage."

He hummed in that obnoxious way of his, and she looked up at him. "Is it... logical to have dinner at the cottage, Elsie—we would be getting back to the house awfully late."

Her eyebrows rose. "I should think if we're having dinner at the cottage, we'd want to spend the night there too, Mr. Carson."

"Yes, well, as much as I would like to, we can't," said Charlie with a sigh. "His... Lordship has an early morning the following day, and I simply cannot risk being late. With Mr. Bates and Anna's current situation... I have to be there to pick up their slack, Elsie."

She swallowed her annoyance as she turned her attention forward, to all the villagers passing them. "What would you prefer we do, then?"

"Maybe we can go on a nice evening walk," Charlie said, and he squeezed her hand. "Just the two of us."

She only nodded. "If that's what you want."

"Saint Valentine's Day is a young man's holiday, any heck," continued Charlie in a casual tone. She remained silent. And he must have sensed her disapproval on the comment, for he decided to explain himself further: "It takes more than a fancy card and a few flowers to tell someone you love them, Elsie."

They had been married almost eighteen years and his mindset for Valentine's Day had hardly changed. It had never been their holiday: Elsie had been pregnant their first Valentines as a married couple, miserable and about to burst. And the years following Hughie's birth they spent it trying to please him or they spent it working, or sometimes a mixture of the two. No, it was never their holiday, and he did plenty of things that told Elsie he loved her... but sometimes she wished he made more of an effort. Again, he squeezed her hand.

"Yes, I agree it does take more than a card and some flowers, or a simple dinner at the cottage to tell someone you love them, Charlie, but it's still nice to have on occasion."

Elsie did not allow for him to respond. In the distance, she spotted Mrs. Patmore standing near her deceased nephew's plaque, stroking it softly with her free hand—in her other hand she held her bag and her basket. Elsie quickly waved to get her attention as they made their way over to her. Elsie too took a moment to observe the plaque:

Remember here the sacrifice of Pte. Archie Philpotts Lancashire Fusiliers.

The poor lad had only been nineteen; far too young to see the horrors of war, Elsie knew—she didn't care what her husband thought. The boy was a hero, the same as their dear William.

"My sister still can't believe it. Lucy, my niece, told me she nearly fainted when they told her," said Mrs. Patmore. Her eyes were red and puffy—she always seemed to come back crying when returning from the village now since the memorial.

"It was a very kind of His Lordship," said Charlie, straightening his coat.

"I try to come by every so often," said Mrs. Patmore told them. "Give it a good clean when it needs it." She wiped a small speck of dirt away from Archie's name and then turned to the couple. She eyed the package in Elsie's hand. "It's arrived, then?" Mrs. Patmore asked.

Elsie unhooked her arm from Charlie to pat the package. "It has, finally," she said. "I only hope he'll enjoy it—it took quite the effort to get it here on time."

"I'm sure he'll love it," said Charlie gently.

And together Elsie and Mrs. Patmore began walking back to Downton Abbey with Charlie following close behind them.

They arrived at a short while later—Charlie mostly kept quiet while Elsie and Mrs. Patmore chatted and caught up on all of the gossip for that day: Mr. Branson's departure from Downton; Miss Denker's latest plot to annoy poor Mr. Spratt and the rest of the servants at Dower House; the Gypsies near the train station, who Mr. Carson wholeheartedly disapproved of, even grumbling at the mention of them; and then finally, preparations for Hughie's birthday celebration.

"Daisy and I are making the cake," said Mrs. Patmore, "but we haven't got the time to make anything special for dinner..." She shook her head as they entered the servant's courtyard where Mr. Barrow stood smoking a cigarette. Miss Baxter sat at a table beside him. The sight of the two together triggered the memory of Thomas Barrow and Miss O'Brien, and their many, many years of scheming. But, of course, Miss Baxter was far kinder than Miss O'Brien ever was at Downton, even with her messy past. "What about a party?" she continued as they walked past the pair.

"He says he doesn't want one," Elsie said. And who would they invite? Eddy and the servants, perhaps, but Hughie—or Hugh, as she kept trying to remember to call him—did not know anyone else well enough to invite to a birthday party. The village still seemed quite tense over a young blind boy.

"Is Hughie home?" asked Charlie, adjusting the Braille writer in his hand—it wasn't too heavy, as it was supposed to be more portable, but carrying it from the village to the house must take its toll.

"He came and he went," said Mr. Barrow with a neutral expression, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

"He went with Eddy down to the train station," Miss Baxter explained. "He said he would be back in an hour or so."

Elsie nodded her thanks as Charlie opened the door to the servant's entrance. Mrs. Patmore entered first with Elsie following close behind.

"It's hard to believe he's already seventeen," said Mrs. Patmore.

Elsie huffed. "Oh, don't I know it," she said. "I feel like I ought to start picking out my gravestone, I feel so old."

Carson carefully read the letter in his hands, Charlie Grigg's sloppy cursive making it nearly impossible for him to decipher what the words exactly said. Charlie rarely wrote to him, and Carson almost never wrote back—they had made their peace with one another, more so Carson had forgiven Charlie, and Alice too. That was all Carson truly needed. And Elsie, of course, knew nothing of his letters... or she was kind enough not to get involved. A full tea cup sat untouched beside him, the liquid inside far too cold now to even think about drinking it. Elsie, he knew, would come in soon enough and take it away, and perhaps scold him for not drinking it.

He set the letter down next to the tea cup, figuring out Charlie's mess enough to understand the general message of the letter. It seemed his old friend thought his days were numbered—and perhaps they were. Perhaps Carson's time remaining was also limited.

He had work to get on with, so he shook any unwelcome feelings away from his mind and he reached for his fountain pen. Black with a golden tip, it was a Christmas gift from Elsie; he fussed over the cost with her a bit, but he was appreciative of the gift nonetheless.

As he reached for it, he felt a slight tingle in his hand, and then an unprovoked shake. He quickly pulled the shaking hand close towards him; it bumped the tea cup and most of the liquid spilled onto Charlie's letter, but he was too focused on his hand to care. Carson stood abruptly, grasping the hand firmly with his other, taking a moment to observe the hand. It continued shaking. "Oh no," he muttered quietly.

"It's only a spill, Charlie," said Elsie's voice, and Carson quickly hid the hand behind his back.

He looked up, but she was already out the door, on a quest to find a rag, no doubt. Carson lifted his hand again; thankfully, it was no longer shaking. He hoped—no, he prayed—it wasn't what he thought it was. Elsie returned quickly with a grayish rag from the kitchen and he watched as she dabbed the mess away. Charlie's letter seemed to only be the thing ruined on his desk, and that hardly mattered to Carson. He threw it in the bin without another thought.

"My mind must've been elsewhere," he quickly said, hoping to hide the shakiness in his voice.

"It was Grigg again, wasn't it?" she said as she lifted the now soaked rag. He raised a thick eyebrow at her. So she had known about Charlie's letters. "You really should think about writing to him back one of these days."

Instead of replying, he simply turned away and sat back down in his chair. "How has the new footman been getting on?" Carson asked her, choosing to move on from the discussion about Charlie.

"Andrew? I haven't had any issues with him," she said, holding the wet wag in her hands. "Although—" And she stopped, hesitating. "I have noticed Mr. Barrow attempting to..."

"...corrupt him," Carson finished for her, shifting in his seat at such behavior. He sighed.

"No," she said almost shamefully. "But he does seem eager to befriend him."

"We don't want that sort of scandal at Downton again." He reached for his fountain pen again, thankful that there was no sign of shaking—perhaps he just experienced some sort of fluke. He grabbed it with ease. "I'll have a word with Andrew to assure he stays clear of Mr. Barrow and his... unlawful behavior."

She nodded before quickly exited with the tea cup and wet rag in her hands. He tidied the papers on his desk, taking one last look at both of his hands. And Elsie returned to his pantry empty handed.

"Hughie's gone up," she said, taking a seat in one of his chairs by the wall. Carson stood, moving to his wife to sit beside her.

"What did Madge need to speak with you about this evening?" he asked, grabbing the sherry to pour Elsie's glass, and then his own. Still no shaking.

She huffed, her mouth twitching slightly. She took the sherry glass and looked down into it. "Oh, it seems Madge has gotten quite close to that Robins boy in the last month or so..."

Carson's brows knit in confusion. He took a sip of his sherry. "I don't see how that relates to you or to Downton Abbey." And then realization quickly struck him, and he straightened; another Ethel Parks scandal was more than enough to send him over the edge. "She's not..."

"No, nothing of that sort," she told him softly, "but..." And she stopped, looking down at her glass.

"But...?" he asked cautiously.

"But he doesn't like her working at Downton," she said. She waited for a moment before continuing, watching him carefully in case he might explode in frustration. "He wants her working in a shop somewhere instead so her nights are free."

"So we're down two housemaids now," he grumbled, sipping his sherry. "And only two footmen—and an under butler, who isn't much use to me..."

"It's a changing world, Charlie," she said. "No one wants to spend their whole life in service anymore—if they ever did."

She turned away from him, hiding her expression. Downton Abbey was now a little less extraordinary than when a young and ambitious Charlie Carson first moved into the once great house—no, he refused to admit such defeat; they had just fallen under hard times.

"I'll speak with his lordship whenever he has the time," said Carson dutifully. "Don't you worry, Elsie."

"It appears I'm not the one worried here, Mr. Carson." She sipped her sherry and he let out an exasperated sigh.

Mr. Carson walked around the table handing letters to servants as he always did at that time in the morning—though today everyone seemed much more eager receiving their mail, for it was Saint Valentine's Day.

Phyllis Baxter had not received a Valentine's card since... well, since she was a young girl, perhaps, so she was surprised when Mr. Carson handed her a letter.

She looked briefly at Mr. Molesley, who attempted to hide his own interest in her letter by fiddling with his cuffs when their eyes met. Thankfully, or disappointingly, it was a letter from her elderly Aunt Rose, who must have forgotten such a silly love holiday existed. She looked over at Mr. Molesley again, feeling an urge to explain herself, but he quickly looked away.

"And this letter is addressed to Hughie—er, Hugh," said Mr. Carson while walking back to his seat at the head of the table. Phyllis Baxter turned to the empty seat beside her. Young Hugh Carson had left for school before the bread even rose up inside the heating oven. "He can open it when he returns from school..."

She turned to Mr. Barrow, who had an amused expression on his face as Mr. Carson placed the letter down with his own pile of mail, but he quickly turned his attention back to his own letters.

Mrs. Hughes, who sat next to Mr. Barrow, looked displeased for one brief moment before turning her attention to Mr. Carson, and they began a conversation.

The bells above Charlie rang. Anna rose and so did Miss Baxter, and together they walked out of the room. Charlie stood not too long after them, and everyone else followed suit. He waved them all down and he quickly headed for his pantry. Elsie followed him.

"I'm not sure I like him being away from the house so often, Elsie," he complained to her quietly, and Elsie only felt slightly disappointed that he made no effort to acknowledge the holiday to her; not even a kiss on the lips or a happy Saint Valentine's Day. "I don't think I've seen him since Thursday..."

"He deserves some freedom, Charlie," she retorted, too annoyed with him to agree on anything he said in that moment.

He huffed, shaking his head, and he quickly escaped inside his pantry. Elsie made her way to her own room, not wanting to stay and listen to his grumbling. But she quickly stopped upon entering her room. Something had changed since she had last entered her room an hour or so before breakfast. On her desk sat a beautiful bouquet of white roses and a card with the image of a mischievous Cupid embracing a decorated large red heart propped up beside the flowers. It read:

Mrs. Elsie Carson,

I'm sorry I called St. Valentine's Day a young man's holiday.

With love,

Your curmudgeon

Elsie smiled, her anger and annoyance at her husband almost forgotten. "Oh, I love you, Charlie Carson," she said softly, only to herself.

She placed the card aside and examined the roses. They were arranged strangely, but not terribly—perhaps a last minute order... or better yet he had arranged them himself. She bent to smell them when she heard the door close behind her, and she turned to see him looking at her, his hopeful eyes seeking acceptance.

She went to him, placing a gentle kiss on his lips, but he pulled her in closer to deepen it. When they pulled away a few moments later, she rested her hand on his chest.

"I know it isn't much—"

"Oh, Charlie, it's wonderful."

"We won't be able to do anything special tonight, but I promise next weekend we'll go eat lunch at a public house, we'll go see the house—we'll even go see a film, if that's what you want..."

She smiled, adjusting his tie that had gone lopsided, and he leaned down to kiss her again.

"I love you," he told her softly, their lips still touching.

"And I love you, Charlie Carson, you old curmudgeon."

Barrow looked down at the letter in his hands—Jimmy Kent, not a name he heard often these days. He was well, having found work with some rich bloke in London. To emphasize his love for women, and only women, he wrote about all the loose girls in the city. Perhaps he realized the letter would be received on Valentine's Day, and he did not want Barrow to mistake his letter as anything more than a declaration of friendship. He also spoke about how he missed Downton, and Daisy and Ivy—even Mr. Carson; the servants where he now worked were snobbish and mean, he wrote. He spoke of the fire at Downton, and the regrets he had that night...

Barrow ignited a single match and lit his cigarette before taking the flame and setting Jimmy's letter on fire, and he watched as his words slowly faded out of existence. But before the flame could reach his other hand, Barrow blew it out with a strong cigarette breath. He wasn't going to risk his position at Downton—not anymore. Smoke surrounded him.

"You really ought to be careful when doing that," warned Miss Baxter. She had just entered the courtyard, witnessing his rebellious and possibly foolish act. But he knew she kept secrets, so he did not worry he might tell Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson.

Instead, he threw what remained of the letter into the large trash bin beside him—it could not be traced back to him should anyone discover it was a letter.

"I hope everything is all right," Miss Baxter continued after a long moment of silence.

"You can never be too careful these days, Miss Baxter," he said. "That's all." She nodded, but her expression told him she was unconvinced with his explanation. "Did Mr. Molesley finally muster up enough courage to tell you he loves you?" he asked her bluntly, motioning to her own letter.

"No." She clutched the letter to her chest. After a moment, she winced, realizing her own words. "That is—I received a letter from my Aunt Rose in Preston." She turned away, her face slightly growing pink.

Were they close enough that Barrow could tease her about Mr. Molesley? Or perhaps he was being too harsh about it. Their friendship—or acquaintanceship—was something he was beginning to enjoy. But it was hardly enough to ignite the flame in his soul.

"It appears Hughie has a secret Valentine of his own," he decided to continue, and she turned back to him.

"Would that be so terrible," she said gently.

"No," he agreed. "I don't know officially. But he has been gone quite a bit lately—haven't you noticed? He and that friend of his have been hanging 'round the Gypsies apparently. Mr. Carson won't be too pleased when he finds out..."

"It isn't our business," she said firmly.

He shrugged, putting his cigarette in his mouth and taking a long drag. Miss O'Brien was much easier to gossip with.

Seventeen years ago today Elsie was heading off to bed, wishing only in that moment for Hughie to be born—of course she had no idea it was Hughie she was waiting for. She remembered crying in Charlie's arms that night as he tried to coax her to sleep. Saint Valentine's Day was far from their minds on that day. If she recalled, Charlie had given her some flowers to celebrate, but she was too miserable to care. And by early the next morning, Charlie was fetching Dr. Clarkson and she was prepping to have a baby at the ripe old age of forty-six.

The whole nine months were dreadful, and the labor was even worse, but she would do it a thousand times over if it meant having Hughie. Now she wrapped his gift for his seventeenth birthday. Oh, where had all the time gone, she often wondered. Her baby boy was growing into a man, and there was nothing she or Charlie could do about it. A knock on her door pulled her away briefly from her thoughts and Charlie entered.

"I'm going up to ring the dressing gong," he informed her, looking briefly at the gift in her hands.

She nodded, tying a ribbon string around the present. He let out a gentle but irritated sigh, and she smiled to herself. "Where's he gone off to now?" she asked him delicately.

"Nowhere—yet," he said. "But he is insistent on going out tonight. Eddy has apparently found some last minute trouble for them to cause..."

"Well, it is Saint Valentine's Day, Charlie," she said.

"And tomorrow is a school day."

"And also his birthday," she reminded him, and he huffed.

"I'm not waiting up for him, Elsie," he said. "If he isn't home by ten, I'm locking the doors and he's sleeping outside."

He checked the time on his watch once more. It was already half past ten and still no sign of Hughie—or Hugh as he was wanting to now be called. He was ready to telephone the police five minutes past ten, but Elsie told him to wait a while longer; it was still quite early and they really shouldn't start worrying until eleven, she explained to him.

She tried to bribe him with some of his favorite wine, but his nerves still got the better of him. Edward Wright was a terrible influence on his precious boy and he would ban him from the house and their cottage if Elsie only allowed it.

"I'm sure they're on their way back now, Charlie," she told him softly. "I wouldn't worry too much. He knows the area well enough that he can find his way back to the house on his own."

"It's not Hughie I'm worried about," muttered Carson, taking a sip of his wine. It was everyone else he had little trust for.

She placed her hand on his knee for extra reassurance. He patted it gently, appreciating the gesture.

Carson glanced at his hand holding the wine glass. He hadn't shaken since the incident, and he hoped he would never see any sort of movement again. Had he ever mentioned palsy to Elsie? He could not remember, but he was not about to put more worries in that precious mind of hers.

A knock on the door shook his worries away and he placed his glass down as Mr. Bates opened the door.

"We're leaving now," informed Mr. Bates.

His face looked grim—Carson truly pitied the man. Anna had only recently been released from prison and Mr. Bates returned shortly after her, but that damn man Green still haunted their lives.

Carson stood, adjusting his vest on his way up. "I've spoken with his lordship and he says if you and Anna want to take time off tomorrow, you are free to do so."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson, but we must decline the offer," he said. "She likes to keep busy; we both do. It helps us to keep our minds off... things."

"Have you heard from Sergeant Willis yet?" asked Elsie behind Carson.

"I telephoned him this afternoon," he said with a frown. "The investigation is still ongoing."

"Erm—we mustn't lose hope, Mr. Bates," said Carson firmly.

"I don't intend to," he said. He nodded in his direction. "Goodnight, Mr. Carson—Mrs. Hughes."

"Goodnight," said Elsie, and Carson closed the door behind Mr. Bates. "Poor thing," she said quietly as Carson found his way back to his chair.

"I only wish there was more we could do," he said with a sigh.

"I hate to see an innocent woman hang for the murder of a vicious monster..." She shuddered, taking a long sip of her wine; she had known the secret the longest—only telling him the entire truth once Anna had been arrested, and she had wept in his arms almost the whole night.

"It won't come to that, Elsie," he told her. "They haven't got any proof."

They fell silent. Carson looked down at his wine. Red and dry, and very delicious—the wine he had given Hughie all those years ago when Hughie was just a boy. And now... he was still just a boy; an older, much more rebellious boy.

"We should speak to Hughie—er, Hugh—about finding work," Carson said firmly. "I'd like for him to have something near here—so we can keep a close eye on him—but I don't want to force anyone to hire him..."

"I suppose we do need to speak with him about it eventually," she said softly, "but let's not ruin his birthday, Charlie. We can talk to him after."

He checked the time again: it was getting close to eleven. He stood to phone the police when he heard another knock on his door.

"Come in," he called out as he found the telephone's handle.

Anna entered with an amused expression on her face. His hand fell back to his side.

"Anna," said Elsie, standing. "I thought you and Mr. Bates had already gone..."

"We had... only—well, you better come see for yourself."

Carson and Elsie shared a quizzical look as Anna led them towards the kitchen. The sound of laughing and loud, obnoxious singing:

'Twas early the next morning he prepared to go away.

The landlord said "Your reckoning, sir, you have forgot to pay."

"Oh no", the butcher did reply "pray do not think it strange.

A sovereign I gave your maid and I haven't got the change."

They straight way called the chambermaid and charged her with the same.

The golden sovereign she laid down, prepared she'd get the blame.

The butcher then went home, well pleased with what was passed.

And soon this pretty chambermaid grew thick about the waist...

And there Hughie stood tall and proud, dancing and singing like a drunk fool on Saint Valentine's Day. His hat sat disregarded on the floor below his jittery feet. His hair was untamed and his shirt untucked—and he wasn't even wearing his vest, and where on earth were his shoes? Eddy danced and sung along side him, louder and much more foolishly—although, he at least looked more put together.

The maids all giggled around them. Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter were attempting to settle them down into a couple of chairs. Daisy was in the corner preparing some coffee for them both. And Mr. Barrow stood smiling in the corner, simply looking on at the frightful sight.

"What in God's name..." Carson said in a booming voice.

The dancing stopped and Eddy wobbled on over to him. "Hel... Hello," he said with a burp, "Mr... Mr. Carson!" Eddy's arm wrapped around his shoulders, and Carson, disgusted by the action, quickly brushed him off. He fell to the floor with a loud thud.

Elsie gasped and together with Anna they quickly got him back on his feet. Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter managed to get Hughie down in a chair and Daisy was pouring a cup of hot coffee for him.

"We found them like this on our way home," explained Anna. "We wanted to make sure they made it here safe."

"Thank you, Anna," said Elsie, growing slightly pink.

"We're sorry we troubled you with this," said Carson. "Please, don't let us keep you any longer. We have everything under control here."

She nodded at him and then turned to Hughie. He sat with his hands supporting his chin with his elbows firmly on the table, and his eyes tightly closed. "I doubt you'll remember any of this in the morning," she said, and his head tilted in her direction, "but you gave Mr. Bates and I quite the show." Her hand rested on his shoulder and she smiled—the first smile Carson had seen from her in months. "Thank you." She turned to Carson and Elsie. "Goodnight."

She quickly left and Mr. Molesley moved towards Eddy. "I'll make sure Eddy makes it home all right..."

"That's very kind," said Elsie, handing Eddy off to him. "Thank you, Mr. Molesley."

"I'll come with," said Andrew as he entered the kitchen. "We've all been there before..." But his smile quickly faltered as he met Carson's disapproving gaze. "At least, I think—I wouldn't know, of course."

Carson resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Take him," he ordered. "I want him as far away from this house as possible... and then some."

"Your wish, is, is... is my command," said Eddy as he was dragged out of the room with one arm around Andrew and the other around Mr. Molesley.

Carson huffed.

"Come now," said Elsie to Hughie sweetly. She lifted him off the chair and she pulled him in close to her. He snuggled in close, like he did when he was a small and helpless child. "Let's get you up to bed, shall we?"

"Elsie—"

"He's in no condition for one of your famous lectures, Mr. Carson," said Elsie as she slowly led Hughie to the stairs. Instead of arguing with her, he decided to help his wife; after all, Hughie was now almost taller than him, and in an hour or so would be his seventeenth birthday.