She looked up quickly. “Has he consented to go?”
“Well, we’re goin’.—It comes to the same thing I reckon,” said Uncle William. He was looking at the dark face with the darker lines beneath the eyes. “You’ll hev an easier time,” he said. “It’s been putty hard on you.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” quickly, “—only the misunderstandings—and the quarrels—”
“That was the fever,” said Uncle William.
“But I didn’t have the fever,” said the girl. “I might have been patient.”
“Well, I reckon the Angil Gabriel himself’d quarrel with a man that had one of them intermittent fevers,” said the old man thoughtfully. “They’re powerful trying’. You feel better—a little—and you perk up and think you’re goin’ to get well, and then, fust thing you know, there you are—all to do over again. If I had my ch’ice of all the diseases in the calendar, that’s the one I wouldn’t take. Some on ’em you hev the comfort of knowin’ you’ll die of ’em—if ye live long enough.” He chuckled a little. “But this one, ye can’t die and ye can’t get well.”
“But he is going to get well?” The girl’s eyes held him.
“Yes, he’ll be all right if he can set out in the wind a spell—and the sun. The fever’s broke. What he wants now is plenty to eat and good company. You’ll be comin’ up to see us byme-by, mebbe?” He looked at her hopefully.
“Do you think I could?”
“Well, I dunno why not. He’ll be gettin’ restless in a month or so. You might as well be married up there as anywhere. We’ve got a good minister—a fust-rate one.”