"You do not think of yourself, I say. You have been coughing again."
"A little."
"A little? Loudly enough to wake me, and I am a sound sleeper. Eleanor Hill, you are nursing me, when you more need a nurse yourself. I am almost well, you know. You are growing thinner and your cough is worse every day."
"No, Carlton, better—much better!"
"Are you sure? Stop, let me see your handkerchief!" He was looking her steadily in the face, and she obeyed him as if in spite of her own will and because she had always been in the habit of doing so.
"I thought so," he said. "Eleanor, you are very ill. Do not deceive yourself or try to deceive me."
"Carlton Brand," she answered, returning that look, full in the eyes, and speaking slowly—calmly—firmly. "I am dying, and no one knows the fact better than myself. Thank God that the end is coming!"
"Oh no, you are very ill, but not beyond hope—not dying," he attempted to urge as some modification of the startling confession she had made.
"Yes—the whole truth may as well be told now, Carlton, since we have begun it. I am dying of consumption, and I hope and believe that I shall have but few more days left after you get well enough to leave this hospital."
"Heavens!" exclaimed the wounded man. "If this is true, do you know what you are making of me? Little else than a murderer! I meant it for the best—the best for the country and yourself, when I took you away from the house of your—of Philip Pomeroy, and sent you into this new path of life; but the sleepless hours and over-exertion, the exposures to foul air and draughts and anxiety to which you have been subjected—oh, Eleanor, is this what I have done?"