"Egad, Peregrine, you are damned ill!"
"Promise—promise! Swear me this, Anthony!" cried I, starting up in bed to grasp at him with eager hands. And then came Mary, running, to clasp me in eager arms and lay me back among the pillows.
"Mr. Anthony!" she cried. "Oh, Mr. Anthony, didn't I warn 'ee not to excite 'im then—oh, Mr. Anthony!"
Lying thus helpless, I felt myself shaken as by an ague fit, saw Anthony staring down at me fearful-eyed ere he crept from the room, felt an arm beneath my head, a cup at my lips and, drinking thirstily, lay awhile staring up at the ceiling, where red wheels seemed to spin through the mist of a gossamer veil spangled with gold stars.
It lay curling across my pillow close to my eyes, stirring gently as if endowed with life, a delicate, shimmering filament, never quite at rest, that glowed where the light caught it, and I watched it drowsily until, hearing a stealthy sound, I glanced up to behold my uncle George standing beside the bed.
"Why, Peregrine," said he softly, his handsome face unwontedly grave, "how are you, dear lad?"
"Thank you—I am greatly better and here is a hair on the pillow, Uncle George! This is neither your hair nor mine, and Mrs. Mary's is brown, as I remember. So whose hair is this, Uncle George?"
"Hair?" he repeated, fumbling with his whisker. "I don't see any hair,
Perry."
"Here on my pillow, Uncle."
"Well, what of it, lad. Your Aunt Julia's, perhaps—"