In his delirium for the most part Aladdin dwelt upon Margaret, so that his love for her was an old story to Mrs. Brackett. One gay spring morning, after a terrible night, Aladdin’s fever cooled a little, and he was able to talk in whispers.
“Mrs. Brackett,” he said, “Mrs. Brackett.”
She came hurriedly to the bed.
“I know you’re feelin’ better, ‘Laddin O’Brien.”
He smiled up at her.
“Mrs. Brackett,” he said, “I dreamed that Margaret St. John came here to ask how I was—did she?”
Margaret hadn’t. She had not, so hedged was her life, even heard that Aladdin lay sick.
Mrs. Brackett lied nobly.
“She was here yesterday,” she said, “and that anxious to know all about you.”
Aladdin looked like one that had found peace.