“Never mind that, dear,” said Helen, smiling. “I dare say it is only camomile-tea, and it shows that the poor boy has not lost his place in dear old Millett’s heart.”
Helen kissed her father, and stopped at her own door feeling half-amused and half-tearful as she saw the old man go on tiptoe to Dexter’s room, where, with the light of the candle shining on his silver hair and beard, he tapped gently with his knuckles.
“Asleep, Dexter?”
There was a faint “No, sir!” from within.
“Make haste and go to sleep,” said the doctor. “Good-night, my boy. God bless you!”
Helen saw him smile as he turned away from the door, and it may have been fancy, but she thought she saw a glistening as of moisture in one corner of his eye.
“Poor Dexter!” she said softly, as she entered her room, while the boy, as he lay there in the cool, soft sheets, utterly wearied out, but restless and feverish with excitement, felt the doctor’s last words send, as it were, a calm, soothing, restful sensation through his brain, and five minutes later he was sleeping soundly, and dreaming that some one bent over him, and said, “Good-night. God bless you!” once again.