“Yes, undoubtedly.”
Myra burst into tears; the invalid brightened a little, then turned his face on the pillow, and great tears rolled down his cheeks.
“No, doctor,” he murmured, “no!”
“It is my opinion we have every thing to hope here, madam. Let us take a little more blood, and all will go on well.”
Bandages were brought; the sharp lancet bit its way a third time into those hot veins, and directly a servant bore out a great white toilet-bowl frothing over with the red life drawn from a frame already exhausted with its battle against the fever.
“There, madam,” said the doctor, laying the wounded arm of his patient tenderly on the counterpane. “He will do well now, have no fear; I will drop in this evening; follow the old directions and keep him quiet.”
“O doctor! I can not speak my thankfulness, my heart is so full.”
“There is no necessity of words,” said the doctor, complacently; “or for gratitude either, so far as I am concerned.”
Myra followed the man, whom she looked upon as something more than human, into the hall.
“Ah, doctor, are you sure that he is better—it was not done to cheer him up?” she cried, while her poor lips began to quiver with the fear that crept over her.