"She's going in there to cry," he softly drawled.
"You can't go, Ravenel," said March. "Why, it'll kill you, like as not."
"Got to go, John. Politics."
"Oh, the other fellows can work it without you."
"Yes," replied the smiling lips, "that's why I've got to be there."
The subject was dropped. That was Tuesday morning. John called twice a clay until Thursday evening. Each time he came Fannie seemed more and more wan and blighted, though never less courageous.
"She'll be sick herself if she doesn't hire a nurse and get some rest," said the doctor to John; but her idea of a hired nurse was Southern, and she would not hear of it. John was not feeling too honest these days. On the evening of Thursday he came nerved up to mention Miss Garnet, whom, as a theme, he had wholly avoided whenever Fannie had spoken of her. But the moment he met Fannie, in the outer room, he was so cut to the heart to see how her bridal beauty had wasted with her strength that he could only beg her to lie down an hour, two, three, half the night, the whole of it, while he would watch and tend in her place. He would take it unkindly if she did not.
"Oh, John," she laughingly replied, "you forget!" He faintly frowned.
"Yes, Miss Fannie, I try to." He did not add that he had procured assistance.
Her response was a gleam of loving approval. John noticed seven or eight minute spots on her face and recognized for the first time in his life that they were freckles.