“Is Tom really dying?” was her first question.
“He seems to wish it, and the surgeon gives no encouragement. He is anxious to see you.”
“Is it known who did this?”
“Nothing as yet. Tom Bendibow seemed to have something on his mind, but I think he wanders a little. He may speak more explicitly to you.”
“Take me to him,” said Perdita; and when they were at the door of the room she added: “I will see him alone.” So Philip went away, thoughtfully.
Perdita closed the door and moved up to the bedside.
Tom’s face was turned toward her: it had the pallor of coming death upon it, but her propinquity seemed to check the ebbing current of vitality, and to restore the poor youth in some measure to himself.
“Good morning, Perdita,” he said, with a feeble echo of cheerfulness in his tone. “I told you yesterday I’d like to die for you, and here I am at it, you see!”
“Do anything but that, Tom. I want you to live.”
“It can’t be done, now. I don’t believe even your marrying me would keep me alive now!” said Tom, though with an intonation as if the matter were open to question. “And it’s just as well, you know. I had no notion till now how easy dying is. It doesn’t hurt half so much as a licking at school. I rather like it.”