“Has he had a doctor?”
Jemima shook her head. “He wouldn't hab none; he ain't been clean beat out till day befo' yisterday, an' den I got skeered an'—” She stopped, leaned closer, clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming, and staggered back to her chair.
St. George raised his head from the pillow and stared into the shadows.
“Who is talking? I heard somebody speak? Jemima—you haven't disobeyed me, have you?”
Harry stepped noiselessly to the bedside and laid his fingers on the sick man's wrist:
“Uncle George,” he said gently.
Temple lowered his head as if to focus his gaze.
“Yes, there is some one!” he cried in a stronger voice. “Who are you, sir?—not a doctor, are you? I didn't send for you!—I don't want any doctor, I told my servant so. Jemima!—Todd!—why do you—”
Harry tightened his grasp on the emaciated wrist. “No, Uncle George, it's Harry! I'm just back.”
“What did he say, Todd? Harry!—Harry! Did he say he was Harry, or am I losing my mind?”