"I'll be as fit as a fiddle in no time at all," he said hurriedly. "See you tomorrow, Rosie,—or as soon as the blamed old doctor turns me loose. I've got to be on my way now. He's waiting for me up there. May have to put a stitch in my mug,—and yank my leg like the devil, but—"
She still blocked his path.
"Courtney, I'm—I'm terribly unhappy. I want to see you,—very soon."
"I hear you have been ill, Rosie. Some one was telling me you were looking thin and—and all that sort of thing. I hope you're feeling better."
She waited a moment. When she spoke it was with difficulty.
"I'm awfully worried, Courtney," she cried, her voice little more than a whisper. He was silent, so after a little while she went on: "I wish I could die,—I wish I could die!"
"Come, come!" he said reassuringly. "You must not talk like that, Rosie. Cheer up! You're too young to talk about dying. Think what I've been through,—and I'm still alive! I'll run over tomorrow,—or next day,—and try to cheer you up a bit, little girl. So long. I've got to see the doctor. I'm—I'm suffering like the dickens."
"I mustn't keep you, Courtney," she murmured, stepping aside to let him pass. "Good night! You—you WILL come, won't you? Sure?"
"Sure!" he replied, and limped painfully away.
A little later Annie Jordan found her standing beside the road, where he had left her. She was looking up at the brightly lighted house at the top of the lane.