The young man looked at the bottle. “You haven’t many left?”
“Eight more,” said Uncle William, rapping the cork into place. “That ’lows for one more fever for me afore I die—I don’t cal’ate to have but one more.” He looked about for his hat. “I’m goin’ out a little while,” he said, settling it on his head.
“Wait a minute, Uncle William.” The young man stretched out his hand. “How did you come to know I needed you?”
Uncle William took the hand in his, patting it slowly. “Why, that was nateral enough,” he said. “When Sergia wrote me, sayin’ you was sick—”
“Sergia wrote you?” the young man had turned away his eyes. “She should not have done it. She had no right—”
“Why not?” said Uncle William. He seated himself by the bed. There was something keen in the glance of his blue eyes. “You’re goin’ to be married, ain’t you?”
The head on the pillow turned uneasily. “No—not now.”
“Why not?”
“I shall never be able to take care of her.”
“Shucks!” said Uncle William. “Let her take care of you, then.”