A Pixy in Petticoats by John Trevena

It was late when the doctor came riding over the moor. Burrough had been employing the time in trying to extract information from his nurse, but that austere person remained as uncommunicative and mysterious as Peter himself, who had fallen under the ban of his master's displeasure by glancing up with a disdainful expression and licking his paws in reply to questions. Directly the surgeon came in, with a brisk step and cheery remark, the invalid attacked him with the query which had been on and off his tongue since Beatrice's departure.

"What is the extent of your injuries? " hummed and hawed the surgeon, who was a typical army man, kind and easy-going. "My dear chap, don't worry yourself; you're doing fine. I'm going to turn you out for a walk to-morrow, and send the nurse away, and knock you off the sick-list."