“But, oh,” said Ethel, “his success has been dearly purchased!”
CHAPTER XII.
“It hath do me mochil woe.”
“Yea hath it? Use,” quod he, “this medicine;
Every daie this Maie or that thou dine,
Go lokin in upon the freshe daisie,
And though thou be for woe in poinct to die,
That shall full gretly lessen thee of thy pine.”
CHAUCER.
That night Norman started from, what was not so much sleep, as a trance of oppression and suffering, and beheld his father’s face watching him attentively.
“Papa! What’s the matter?” said he, starting up. “Is any one ill?”
“No; no one, lie down again,” said Dr. May, possessing himself of a hand, with a burning spot in the palm, and a throbbing pulse.
“But what made you come here? Have I disturbed any one? Have I been talking?”
“Only mumbling a little, but you looked very uncomfortable.”
“But I’m not ill—what are you feeling my pulse for?” said Norman uneasily.