"Brothers till death," Frank muttered.
"Oh, Frank, Frank, do not talk thus! I will not, I cannot let you go!"
It did seem, nevertheless, that poor Frank was going home that night.
The scene in that tent of boughs was a strange but a solemn one; the sick lad—he was not yet twenty years of age—lying on the couch in the corner, with sad-faced Fred holding his hand as he squatted near him, little Cassia-bud sitting dolefully by the door, Quambo towering high above him, and the great dog, as sad as anyone, lying on the floor watching all. The lamp gave but a feeble light, for it was shaded by green branches; and this only added additional gloom to everything around.
"Are you there, Fred?"
It was Frank's voice, though it sounded very weak and very far away.
"I'm by you, dear Frank."
"Isn't it very dark?"
Fred's heart gave an uneasy thud. Had he attempted to speak now the tears would have choked him. Frank was dying, he thought.
"I'm going to sleep, Fred. Good night. Hold my hand."