"Don't talk, Aylmer; you have to live a long life and prove your words."
"Oh, this agony!" cried the poor boy. "Keith, I don't believe I'll ever get better. Will you send for the doctor again? I know I am much worse."
"I will give you your opiate again at the end of an hour," said Keith, "and then, if you are not better, I will send for Armstrong. But, remember, he expected these paroxysms at intervals. He thought you going on nicely when he saw you at nine o'clock."
"I am worse now—much worse."
Keith suddenly rose.
"Why, it is time for your other medicine," he said; "perhaps you will feel easier after you have taken it."
Keith now crossed the room to the little table, took up the larger bottle, and went into the anteroom. He poured out a full dose of two tablespoonfuls, and brought the medicine in a glass to Aylmer. Aylmer drank it off, uttering a sigh as he did so.
"It doesn't taste quite the same," he said, "but—" His voice dropped away into a drowsy monotone. "You were quite right," he remarked in a minute: "the pain is dulled—I am beautifully sleepy. Don't disturb me, please."
"Certainly not. Go to sleep now; I am close to you."
Keith sat for some time motionless by the sick man's side. He knew by the gentle breathing that Aylmer had dropped into profound slumber. Presently he moved into an arm-chair, stretched himself out, and closed his eyes. Without intending it, he dropped off himself into sleep. During that sleep he had terrified dreams that Aylmer was calling him, and that Strause was preventing his going to him. At last he started up, his heart beating very fast.