Meanwhile in the other room Robert lay tossing feverishly upon his bed. Jean sat beside him smoothing his pillow from time to time, and soothing his anguished mind with words of love and encouragement.
“Blessings on your faithful head, Jean,” he murmured gratefully. “You’re the best, truest wife that erring mortal man ever had.” She flushed with pleasure at his words of praise. “Oh, this accursed rheumatism,” he groaned. “How it shackles one, making one as much a prisoner as though a ball and chain were attached to his ankle.”
“But you are much better to-day,” said Jean brightly.
“For a while only. I fear me this is my fatal illness,” he replied despondently.
“Don’t say that, Robert; you’ll be on your feet in a few days now,” and she looked hopefully into his worn and haggard face.
He pressed her hand gently. “I haven’t been the best of husbands, lass,” he said after a pause. “I have sore tried your patience and your love ofttimes, by my unfaithfulness, my unworthiness.”
“I do not complain, Robert,” she answered quietly.
“No, ye have never done that,” he said with a tender smile, “frequent though my lapses in sobriety and propriety have been.” He paused thoughtfully; presently he continued in mournful reflection, “But I was punished for those sins afterward, for then came remorse, shame, regret, the three hell hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my heels.”
“If it is God’s will——” began Jean, but he interrupted her.