For a fortnight Foster Townsend’s mind was little concerned with his own affairs or those of any one else. The disease ran its course, of pain and delirium, fever and weakness. When, at last, he turned the corner and began faintly to realize where he was and what was going on about him he noticed that Reliance Clark was sitting in the chair by his bedroom window, sewing. He watched her for a time without speaking. Then he whispered her name.
“Reliance,” he murmured, “that’s you, isn’t it?”
She put down the hat she was trimming and crossed to his bedside.
“Yes, Foster,” she said cheerfully, “it is me. My! I am glad to have you enough better to know who it is. You are goin’ to be all right now; the doctor says so.”
His condition did not interest him, apparently.
“What in the devil are you doing here?” he whispered.
“Oh, I just came up to see how you were gettin’ along. Don’t worry about me. And don’t try to talk.”
He moved his head impatiently on the pillow.
“You were here yesterday, weren’t you?” he asked. “Seems as if I remember seeing you.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I might have been. Now you lie still. Go to sleep, if you can.”