Tarrant opened his eyes wider. If Germs was here he certainly couldn't have fever, couldn't be infectious. No one was so afraid of infection as old Germs--it was a mania with her. Could the doctors and everybody have been mistaken? Perhaps he had only a common throat after all. But it was nasty to feel so queer and light. Yes; Germs was still holding his hand. Back again came that beastly old sentence about the nature of Frederick William; he was in French form, and the master said sharply, "Next word, Tarrant," and he awoke with a start, staring with large frightened eyes at Miss Foster, who said:
"Can you hear me, dear boy?"
He made a little inarticulate sound.
"You must rouse yourself," said Miss Foster. "You mustn't give in. You keep a firm hold of me, and never mind French exercises or anything else. You've been dreaming about a French lesson. Now I forbid you to dream about anything of the kind. You're to dream about being strong and well, if you dream at all. But you'd much better just sleep and get rested."
Miss Foster spoke with immense decision, and sat there looking so portly, and solid, and rational that Tarrant began to wonder if he had dreamt of the Principal's visit.
"Was I prayed for in chapel?" he whispered.
"Of course you were," Miss Foster answered briskly; "that's why you are going to get well. Don't you think about yourself at all, leave that to us."
"Haven't I got fever?" Tarrant persisted in his faint husky whisper.
"Of course you have. But that's no reason to give in. Lots of boys have had scarlet fever and are running about now, not a jot the worse for it. But I'm not going to allow you to talk."
"But why," gasped Tarrant, "are you here?"