"All right, you need not ask me to do my best," and she returned to the sick-room.
At eight o'clock the following morning, when, stiff and weary, Mayne dismounted from his cob, he found that a dark cloud had settled down on Fairplains. In the verandah, he discovered an anxious gathering, talking together in low voices, and in groups. Here were Ted and Nicky, Tom Pollard, young Meach—and Mrs. Hicks. They each nodded a welcome, and the lady advanced, and said:
"I came over early; he is worse. The fever is septic," she added, and her round black eyes filled with tears.
"He is sleeping all right," announced Dr. Hicks, who joined them; "so is Nancy,—I put something in her tea. She was up all night, poor child, and is thoroughly worn out. The nurse will be here about eleven,—and another doctor."
"It's too awful!" stammered Mayne, who had grown ghastly white. "Do you know, Mrs. Hicks, that by rights, I should be in Travers' place?"
"Tut, tut, tut!" she protested, giving him a push; "you go and have a bath, and some breakfast."
"Tell me," appealing to her husband, "will he get over it? Is there no chance?"
"There may be a turn at sundown, please God."
"If not——?"
"These cases last about four days—that brute's claws were so many poison-bags."