"No, thank you, I'll not sit down—I only run in—I suppose you've heard it. That little Merrivale boy has took awful sick with fever, they say. He's been worked half to death this summer—everyone knows what Robins is with his help—and they say he has fretted a good deal for his father and been homesick, and he's run down, I s'pose. Anyway, Robins took him over to the hospital at Stanford last night—good gracious, Cynthy, are you sick?"
Miss Cynthia had staggered to a seat by the table; her face was pallid.
"No, it's only your news gave me a turn—it came so suddenly—I didn't know."
"I must hurry back and see to the men's dinners. I thought I'd come and tell you, though I didn't know as you'd care."
This parting shot was unheeded by Miss Cynthia. She laid her face in her hands. "It's a judgement on me," she moaned. "He's going to die, and I'm his murderess. This is the account I'll have to give John Merrivale of his boy. I've been a wicked, selfish woman, and I'm justly punished."
It was a humbled Miss Cynthia who met the doctor at the hospital that afternoon. He shook his head at her eager questions.
"It's a pretty bad case. The boy seems run down every way. No, it is impossible to think of moving him again. Bringing him here last night did him a great deal of harm. Yes, you may see him, but he will not know you, I fear—he is delirious and raves of his father and California."
Miss Cynthia followed the doctor down the long ward. When he paused by a cot, she pushed past him. Wilbur lay tossing restlessly on his pillow. He was thin to emaciation, but his cheeks were crimson and his eyes burning bright.
Miss Cynthia stooped and took the hot, dry hands in hers.
"Wilbur," she sobbed, "don't you know me—Aunt Cynthia?"