Chapter Seventeen.
What Dally was Doing.
“I feared it,” said North, as he returned from the bedroom, where he had left Leo with the servants, who stood staring helplessly at her, and listening to her ravings about the mare, the plunge into the cold river, and the injured shoulder. “Violent fever and delirium. Poor girl! what could we expect? Heated with her ride, the fall, the sudden plunge into the water, and then a long, slow ride in the drenched garments.”
“Do you think she is very ill?” said Mary anxiously.
“Very; but not dangerously, I hope. There, trust to me, and I will do everything I can. You must have a good nurse at once. Those women are worse than useless. I’ll send on my housekeeper.”
“But you are not going?” cried Salis, with the look of alarm so commonly directed at a doctor.
“My dear boy—only to fetch medicine. I’ll not be long; and mind this: she must not leave her room now. She must be kept there at any cost.”
“And I am so helpless, Hartley,” whispered Mary piteously. “It is so hard to bear.”