"I am sorry for the folks at home," he said in a whisper. "If I die they will grieve; but I shall not die—I am better."
"Yes," said Mollie. She spoke firmly, and he did not see in her face any of the knowledge which she dreaded.
"I don't want to die," he said; "I want to live. Last night I thought I'd like to die, for the pain did grind so; but now I want to live. There are my father and mother, and I have a young sister. Her name is Ethel. She is so pretty. You remind me of her. She is only sixteen, and she is very clever and very pretty; and she has a look of you—or, rather, you have a look of her. It will be all right. I'll get well, won't I, Nurse Mollie?"
"Drink this," said Mollie. She poured a restorative into a teaspoon.
He shook his head.
"I'll get well," he repeated. "But I cannot swallow; my throat is closed up. All the same, I am much better."
"Yes, dear," she said.
She knelt down by him and took his hand. She laid her finger on his pulse—it scarcely beat. There was a cold dew all over him.
"Oh, I am much, much better," he said, smiling, "and—where am I? Where's mother? Where are you, governor? I am back home. George, your son, has come back. We have had a grand victory—the Boers utterly routed. Hurrah for the British flag! Where am I? Oh, here in the sick ward at Ladysmith. Sister Mollie?"
"Yes, my dear lad."