“Patty?”
“Yes; Patty.”
“Patty? Oh! Patty’s all right.”
Tom looked at him very keenly. His heart was crumbling within him, though he could not tell why. He felt faint and ill, and leaned heavily on the table near him. He looked out of the window, watching Black Jim watering the stage horses at the trough in the stable-yard; then, without looking back at Will, he steadied himself for the next question.
“I’m no coward, Will,” said he; “you see I’ve gone through enough this year to turn my hair grey, and I’m no coward now, if I ever was before. I want you to tell me the truth; is—is Patty dead?”
“Dead! No; of course she isn’t dead. She was very much broken down when she heard of the loss of the ship that you sailed in; but she’s all right now,—well and hearty.”
“And she’s not sick—nothing the matter with her?”
“Nothing.”
Tom put his hand to his forehead, for things were swimming around him; then he gave a short laugh, but there was a quaver in it. “You frightened me pretty badly, Will,” said he; “I don’t deny that I felt as though you were dragging my heart out by the roots.”
“See here, Tom, you don’t look well,” said Will; “let me call for a glass of brandy for you.”