“Yes; she went up and saw him at that party, and she knows he's still thinking about her. I shouldn't be surprised if he asked her then, and that's what makes her so gay.”
“Well, she couldn't have said 'yes,' because he went back to his bed the next day, and he's been there most of the time since.”
“Pshaw! He wasn't over his injuries, and he was weak and got malaria.”
“Well, she couldn't be so happy while he's sick, if she cared very much about him.”
“He's not very sick. She's happy because she's working for him, and she knows his illness isn't serious. He'll be a well man when she says the word. He's love-sick, that's what he is; I never saw a man so taken down with it in my life.”
“Then it isn't malaria?” Minnie said, with a smile of some superiority.
“You're just like your poor mother,” the old gentleman answered, growing rather red. “She never could learn to argue. What I say is that Helen cares about him, whether she says she does or not, whether she acts like it or not—or whether she thinks she does or not,” he added irascibly. “Do you know what she's doing for him to-day?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well, when they were talking together at that party, he said something that made her think he was anxious to get away from Plattville—you're not to repeat this, child; she told me, relying on my discretion.”
“Well?”