“He looks very ill,” Hilda said, half dreamily.
“I have been anxious for him these many months,” Ben said quietly. “He never had much strength, and he has overtaxed it with his ranch and his reservoir. It is the story of many a rancher in California.”
“And I have not helped him,” Hilda said.
Ben was silent.
“I would give anything on earth to undo this afternoon’s work,” she said, with painful eagerness. “And it’s so awful to sit here, and not be able to tell him that. I long for him to rest, and yet I long for him to wake. I don’t know how to bear myself.”
“You must wait,” Ben said, gently.
So they waited and watched together. It was a lovely night, and the country was bathed in moonlight. The mountains were darkly outlined against the silvery sky. The world seemed to be one vast fairy-land, wrapt in mystery and peace. On such a night, a poet might have woven dreams, an idealist might have seen bright visions, and to them the hours would have faded imperceptibly like the moonlight into dawn.
But to Hilda that time of waiting seemed endless. She looked out on the fairy scene, and then came back gratefully to the fire which Ben had built up directly the night turned chilly. He sat near her, smoking his pipe, and twirling his great moustaches. Once when he saw her shiver, he rose and fetched a rug for her, and wrapped it around her, and threw a few more logs on the fire. They did not attempt conversation now: they sat rigidly upright, waiting for the morning to dawn. Once she drowsed a little, and when she opened her eyes again, Ben told her that Robert had called out loudly in his sleep, but was now resting quietly.
“The morning is almost here,” he said; “it is half-past three.”
