"What's wrong, Dolly?" he asked. "Aren't you glad to see Johnny come marching home? Where's dad?"
"Glad?" she echoed. "I never was so glad to see any one in my life. Oh, Johnny MacRae, I wish you'd come sooner. Your father's a sick man. We've done our best, but I'm afraid it's not good enough."
"He's in bed, I suppose," said MacRae. "Well, I'll go in and see him. Maybe it'll cheer the old boy up to see me back."
"He won't know you," the girl murmured. "You mustn't disturb him just now, anyway. He has fallen into a doze. When he comes out of that he'll likely be delirious."
"Good Lord," MacRae whispered, "as bad as that! What is it?"
"The flu," Dolly said quietly. "Everybody has been having it. Old Bill Munro died in his shack a week ago."
"Has dad had a doctor?"
The girl nodded.
"Harper from Nanaimo came day before yesterday. He left medicine and directions; he can't come again. He has more cases than he can handle over there."