"What is that, Sally? You have hurt yourself."
"I burned my hand on the stove—it is nothing. Dearest, are you better? Wait. Don't speak till you take your nourishment."
She went out, returning a moment later with a glass of milk and whiskey, which she held to my lips, sitting on the bedside, with her arm slipped under my pillow.
"How long have I been ill, Sally?"
"Several weeks. You became conscious and then had a relapse. Do you remember?"
"No, I remember nothing."
"Well, don't talk. Everything is all right—and I'm so happy to have you alive I could sing the Jubilee, as Aunt Euphronasia says."
"Several weeks and there was no money! Of course, you went to the General, Sally—but I forgot, the General is away. You went to somebody, though. Surely you got help?"
"Oh, I managed, Ben. There's nothing to worry about now that you are better. I feel that there'll never be anything to worry about again."
"But several weeks, Sally, and I lying like a log, and the General away! What did you do?"