The small white bed stood against the wall beneath an open window, and one bright-headed sunflower, growing against the house outside, leaned in and fixed its kind face anxiously upon the sufferer's.
The figure of the boy was stretched along the edge of the bed, his cheek on one hand and his eyes turned steadfastly towards the middle of the room, where, on a table, the violin lay exposed to view.
He looked quickly towards the door as the parson entered, and an expression of relief passed over his face.
"Why, David," said the parson, chidingly, and crossing to the bed with a bright smile. "Sick? This will never do;" and he sat down, imprisoning one of the burning palms in his own.
The boy said nothing, but looked at him searchingly, as though needing to lay aside masks and disguises and penetrate at once to the bottom truth. Then he asked, "Are you mad at me?"
"My poor boy!" said the parson, his lips trembling a little as he tightened his pressure—"my poor boy! why should I be mad at you?"
"You never could do anything with me."
"Never mind that now," said the parson, soothingly, but adding, with bitterness, "it was all my fault—all my fault."
"It wasn't your fault," said the boy. "It was mine."
A change had come over him in his treatment of the parson. Shyness had disappeared, as is apt to be the case with the sick.