"Ruth, Ruth," repeated the gardener.
"It is only I, Jessup," answered Richard Storms, stealing into the room. "There was no one below. I heard voices up here, and took the liberty of an old friend."
"You are welcome," answered the sick man, reaching out his hand, which had lost its ruddy brown since his confinement. "I think Ruth has gone out with Mrs. Mason."
"So much the better that she can leave you, I suppose," answered Storms, still holding the sick man's hand, with a finger on the pulse, while a slow cloud stole over his face. "The fever all gone? Why, man, we shall have you about in another week."
Jessup shook his head, and laid the hand he released from the young man's grasp on his breast.
"I fear not. There is a weakness here," he said.
"And pain?" questioned Storms, eagerly.
"Yes, great pain, at times; but you must not say as much to Ruth: it would fret her."
A glitter, like that of disturbed water, flashed into the young man's eyes.
"Then, as to the fever," continued the sick man, "it comes, on and off, with a chill, now and then; not much to complain of, so I say nothing about it, because of the lass."