“Win or lose it all”?
The words that had always seemed so hard to say came readily enough, as she told the story of the human blighted rose that had brought a new faith to her.
Dil seemed to rally before the doctor came. She opened her eyes, and glanced around with the old bright smile.
“It’s all queer an’ strange like,” she said; “but you’m here, an’ it’s all right. Did I faint away? ’Cause my head feels light an’ wavery as it did that Sunday night.”
“Yes, you fainted. But you are better now. And the doctor will give you a tonic to help you get well. We all want you to get well.”
“I ain’t never been sick, ’cept when I was in the hospital, hurted. I only feel tired, for I ain’t got no pain anywhere, an’ I’ll soon get rested. ’Cause I want to go down home an’ see him. If I could go over to the Square on Sat’day. I ’most know he’ll be waitin’ for me.”
Should she tell the poor child? Oh, was she sure John Travis would come? He need not see her. She had not asked for herself.
The kindly, middle-aged doctor looked in upon them at this moment, accompanied by Miss Mary. Dil smiled with such cheerful brightness that it almost gave the contradiction to her pale face. He sat down beside her, counted her pulse, talked pleasantly until she no longer felt strange, but answered his questions, sometimes with a shade of diffidence when they reflected on her mother’s cruelty, but always with a frank sort of innocence. Then he listened to her breathing, heart and lungs, and the spot where the two ribs were broken, “that hadn’t ever felt quite good when you rubbed over it,” she admitted. He held up her hand, and seemed to study its curious transparency.
“So you are only a little tired? Well, you have done enough to tire one out, and now you must have a good long rest. Will you stay here content?” he asked kindly.
“Everybody’s so good!” and her eyes shone with a glad, grateful light. “But I’d like to go by Sat’day. There’s somethin’—Miss Deerin’ knows”—and an expectant smile parted her lips.