"Surely no, my pet. It's more asthma than bronchitis; I'll pull you round, please God."
Midnight came, and when nurse left the room for a minute she found a small figure crouched down outside the door.
It was Dudley.
"Oh, nurse, he's very bad, isn't he? Is he going to die? What shall I do! I shall be his murderer, I've killed him!"
Dudley's eyes were wild with terror, and nurse tried to soothe him.
"Don't talk nonsense, but go to bed; he'll be better in the morning, I hope. It's just the wet, and the strain of it that's done it. There's none to blame. You couldn't help it, and he's been as bad as this before and pulled through. Go to bed, laddie, and ask God to make him better."
Dudley crept back to bed, and flung himself down on his pillows with a fit of bitter weeping.
"She says I couldn't help it; oh, God, make him better, make him better, do forgive me! I never thought of this!"