"Of fever!—and who took care of him? he would want nursing,—and so far from home. Oh, Cynthia!"
"Oh, I don't fancy he had any nursing, poor fellow! One doesn't expect nursing, and hospitals, and doctors in Abyssinia; but he had plenty of quinine with him, and I suppose that is the best specific. At any rate he says he is quite well now!"
Molly sat silent for a minute or two.
"What is the date of the letter, Cynthia?"
"I didn't look. December the—December the 10th."
"That's nearly two months ago," said Molly.
"Yes; but I determined I wouldn't worry myself with useless anxiety, when he went away. If anything did—go wrong, you know," said Cynthia, using a euphuism for death, as most people do (it is an ugly word to speak plain out in the midst of life), "it would be all over before I even heard of his illness, and I could be of no use to him—could I, Molly?"
"No. I daresay it is all very true; only I should think the Squire could not take it so easily."
"I always write him a little note when I hear from Roger, but I don't think I'll name this touch of fever—shall I, Molly?"
"I don't know," said Molly. "People say one ought, but I almost wish I hadn't heard it. Please, does he say anything else that I may hear?"