"Oh! when I can afford to keep a wife. Shall I tell you how I am getting on now?"
"I should like to hear it," said Mattie, "but you mustn't stop here very long. For there is danger."
"I don't believe it," said he, laughing; "besides, my father has furnished me with a lump of camphor as big as my head, which I've been sitting on the last five minutes. Now, Mattie, let me tell you where I am, and what I am doing."
In a few words, Sidney sketched the particulars of his present mode of life, spoke of his prospects in futuro, and of the kindness which he received at all hands. He was an agreeable companion, and brought some of his vigour and good spirits into that little room with him. He spoke cheerfully and heartily, and the pleasant ring of his voice sounded like old times to Mattie. She lay and listened, and thought it was all very comfortable—she even forgot her fever for awhile, till she remembered the length of time that he had remained with her.
"I hope you will go now," she said, rather suddenly.
"Am I wearying you?—I beg pardon, Mattie. Some of these days when you are better, I intend a longer stay than this."
"Indeed!"
"I shall try my own powers of persuasion, in order that Harriet and I may fight your battles better for you," he said; "we must clear up that mystery—I hate mystery."
"I know it."
"Upon my honour, I would as soon have a sister maligned as you!" cried Sidney; "we are such old friends, Mattie."