“No, no, Harry. Stay and let me nurse you here. We could keep it a secret from every one, and—”
“Hold your tongue!” he said fiercely. “I might live—if I went away—where I could feel—I was safe. I can’t face the old man again. It would kill me. There, it’s too much to ask you—what’s that?”
Louise started to the door. Harry dashed to the window, and his manner was so wild and excited that she darted after him to draw him away.
“Nothing, dear, it is your fancy. There, listen, there is no one coming.”
He looked at her doubtingly, and listened as she drew him from the window.
“I thought I heard them coming,” he said. “Some one must have seen me crawl up here. Coming to take me—to gaol.”
“No, no, dear. You are ill, and fancy all this. Now come and listen to me. It would be so wild, so cruel if I were to leave my home like this. Harry! be reasonable, dear. Your alarm is magnified because you are ill. Let me—no, no, don’t be angry with me—let me speak to my father—take him into our confidence, and he will help you.”
“No,” he said sternly.
“Let me make him happy by the knowledge that you are alive.”
“And come upon him like a curse,” said Harry, as there was a tap at the door, which neither heard in the excitement of the moment, for, eager to help him, and trembling lest he should, in the excited state he was, go alone, Louise threw herself upon her knees at her brother’s feet.