"He is there now, I suppose," she said, excitedly; "but I came away, guessing where you had gone. I cannot breathe in the house when they are together, and he lying so ill and helpless."
I looked up at these words. The storm was beating in her face, but her cheeks were like fire underneath. It might have been all rain that flashed down the burning surface; but I thought not, for there were suppressed sobs in her voice when she spoke.
"Is—is your father at home?" I inquired, hesitating in my speech, I cannot tell wherefore.
"No; he rode over to town before the storm came on. They have the house to themselves."
She spoke bitterly. In truth, I scarcely recognized my own sweet Jessie with those wet garments clinging around her, and that excited face. We walked on in silence, for she turned to retrace her steps. At last she said, abruptly:
"How is he, Aunt Matty? Does he suffer?"
"Greatly, I think, Jessie."
"No wonder he is ill," she said, passionately. "It is enough to break down anything human."
"I am glad you can feel for him, Jessie."
"Feel for him! Who can help it? But who feels for—for—"