“Wait till the fever has exhausted itself, my dear madam, and we will soon build up fresh tissue, and you shall see her gain strength every hour.”
But the fever did not exhaust itself, and in spite of every care Hazel’s state grew critical indeed.
“If I might only see her, dear,” said Mr William Forth Burge; “if I might only speak to her once. I wouldn’t want to come in.”
“No, Bill dear,” said the little woman firmly; “not yet. The doctor says it is best not, and you must wait.”
“Does—does she ever in her wanderings—a—a—does she ever speak about me, Betsey?”
“Yes; sometimes she says you have been very kind.”
“She has said that?”
“Yes, dear; but she is not herself, Bill dear. She’s quite off her head. I wouldn’t build up any hopes upon that.”
“No, I won’t,” he said hastily. “I don’t expect anything—I don’t want anything, only to see her well again. But it does me good to think she can think of me ever so little while she is ill.”
“You see, dear, it’s her wandering,” said his sister; “that’s all.”