“Yes—if we can——”
“We will! Something tells me Patty will get well. The clear look in her eyes this morning——”
“Were they clear, Nan? Did they seem so to you?”
“Yes, dear, they did. And the nurse said that meant a lot.”
“But the specialist doctor—he said Patty is so frail——”
“So she is, and always has been. But that’s in her favour. It’s often the strong, robust people that go off quickest with pneumonia. Patty has a wiry, nervous strength that is a help to her now.”
“You’re such a comfort, Nan. But I don’t want Patty to die.”
“Nor I, Fred. She is nearly as dear to me as to you. You know that, I’m sure. And Patty is a born fighter. She’s like you in that. I know she’ll battle with that disease and conquer it,—I know she will!”
“Please God you’re right, dearest. Let us hope it with all our hearts.”
Alone, Patty fought her life and death battle. Doctors, nurses, friends, all did what they could, but alone she grappled with the angel of death. All unconsciously, too, but with an involuntary struggle for life against the grim foe that held her. Now and again her voice cried out in delirium or murmured in a babbling monotone.