“Wants to see me?” he panted. “No, no; she is wandering, poor girl!”
“No, no, dear,” cried little Miss Burge, clinging to his arm; “she has asked for you hundreds of times when she was wandering, and I wouldn’t tell you—I thought it wouldn’t be right. But now she’s quite herself, and she’s asking for you to come.”
“But ought I,” he said, “in my own house?”
“Yes—now,” whispered back his sister. “But Bill dear, she’s wasted away to a shadow, she’s weak as weak, and you must not say a word more to her than if she was a friend or you were her brother.”
“No, no,” he said hoarsely.
“Come, then. She wants to speak to you, and it may do her good.”
Trembling with excitement, William Forth Burge softly followed his sister up the stairs, trying to smile and look composed, so as to present an encouraging aspect to the invalid, telling himself, heartsore though he was, that it was his duty, and that it would have a good effect; but as he entered the room and saw the change that had taken place, he uttered a low groan, and stood as if nailed to the floor.
For Hazel was changed indeed. Her cheeks were sunken and her eyes looked unnaturally large, but the restless, pained expression had passed away, and the light of recognition was in her eyes, as she tried to raise one hand, which fell back upon the coverlet.
He saw her lips part, and she smiled at him as he stood there by the door. This brought him back to himself, and he went hurriedly towards the bedside.
“It was selfish of me to ask you to come,” she said softly; “but you have both shown that you do not fear the fever.”