She drew his head down and their lips met in a long kiss. As he raised his face he half-fancied she whispered some word; but he could not catch its purport.
He resumed his pacing to and fro. After a time Desirée’s lashes drooped. Her quick breathing grew slow and regular.
“I didn’t think—anyone could—be so—happy,” she murmured, drowsily. “It’s sweet to—to rest—in your arms.”
He bent to kiss her on the forehead. The brow that had been so hot to his first touch was cool and moist.
“You’re better already!” he cried in delight. “Say, sweetheart, I got an idea. To-morrow let’s get that preacher chap to marry us. Shan’t we? Then as soon as you get well enough, we’ll go somewhere for the dandiest weddin’ trip on record. To Yurrup, if you like. Or back to the Antlers. Or anywhere you say. An’ I’ll buy you the prettiest clo’es in all Noo York; an’ you can get a whole cartload of joolry, if you like. I’d pay ev’ry cent I got in the world to keep that wonderful, happy light in those big eyes of yours. Will you marry me to-morrow, girl?”
Desirée did not answer. She was asleep. On tiptoe, Caleb crossed to the bed. He laid her down upon it, smoothing the hot tumbled pillows with his unaccustomed hand. Then he tiptoed with ponderous softness out of the room and closed the door silently behind him.
“Well!” he exclaimed gleefully, addressing Jack and the doctor who were consulting at the far end of the next room. “Guess I had my fright for nothin’! She’ll get on fine. She’s sound asleep, an’ her forehead’s—”
“It is the morphia I gave her to deaden the pain,” said the doctor. “If she had not been suffering so terribly it would have taken effect before.”
“Morphia? Sufferin’?” repeated Caleb. “Why, she’s hardly sufferin’ at all. Told me so, herself. Look here!” he went on, bullyingly, as he advanced on the physician, “D’ye mean to say there’s a chance she won’t get well?”
“There is no earthly power,” retorted the doctor, nettled at the domineering tone, “that can keep her alive ten hours longer.”