Then, before he could tell reasons for his pleasing, which she divined he was about to do, the curtains were up and the eyes wide open to him with a question about Bernal.
He turned to the house and pointed up to the two open windows of the study, in and out of which the warm breeze puffed the limp white curtains.
"He's there, poor chap! He was able to get that far for the first time yesterday, leaning on me and Clytie."
"And to think I never knew he was sick until we came from town last night. I'd surely have left the old school and come before if I'd heard. I wouldn't have cared what Aunt Bell said."
"Eight weeks down, and you know we found he'd been sick long before he found it out himself—walking typhoid, they called it. He came home from college with me Easter week, and Dr. Merritt put him to bed the moment he clapped eyes on him. Said it was walking typhoid, and that he must have been worrying greatly about something, because his nervous system was all run down."
"And he was very ill?"
"Doctor Merritt says he went as far as a man can go and get back at all."
"How dreadful—poor Bernal! Oh, if he had died!"
"Out of his head for three weeks at a time—raving fearfully. And you know, he's quite like an infant now —says the simplest things. He laughs at it himself. He says he's not sure if he knows how to read and write."
"Poor, dear Bernal!"