"They're givin' what the Doctor left. Her fever's beginnin' to rise now. Doctor says we mustn't talk to her, nor let her talk."
"Wal, I'm a goin' up to see her, anyhow. I guess I've got a right to speak to my own wife." And Zeph slipped off his heavy cowhide boots, and went softly up to the door of the room, and opened it without stopping to knock.
The blinds were shut; it seemed fearfully dark and quiet. His wife was lying with her eyes closed, looking white and still; but in the center of each pale cheek was the round, bright, burning spot of the rising hectic.
Mis' Persis was sitting by her with the authoritative air of a nurse who has taken full possession; come to stay and to reign. She was whisking the flies away from her patient with a feather fan, which she waved forbiddingly at Zeph as he approached.
"Mother," said he in an awe-struck tone, bending over his wife, "don't you know me?"
She opened her eyes; saw him; smiled and reached out her hand. It was thin and white, burning with the rising fever.
"Don't you feel a little better?" he asked. There was an imploring eagerness in his tone.
"Oh, yes; I'm better."
"You'll get well soon, won't you?"