“No,” he said, laying his hand upon her forehead. “I am alone.”
“Then I will speak,” she said, in a low, passionate voice. “You have not known—you have not believed it possible—but tell me, I have been very ill?”
“Yes,” he said gently, “you have been ill; but don’t talk—try and rest.”
“I have been very ill, and I may die, and then you would never know,” she whispered quickly. “It is no time, then, for a foolish, girlish reserve. I may have been light and frivolous—coquettish too—but beneath it all I have loved you, and you alone. I do love you with all my heart.”
Two soft, white arms were thrown about Horace North’s neck, to draw him closer to his patient’s gently heaving breast.
Chapter Nineteen.
Was it Delirium?
“Leo, my child, think what you are saying,” cried North.