“I have been only selfish, I wanted to keep you.”
“Yes,” she whispered, “I understand.”
“How long?”
“Only a few days, perhaps a week—two weeks.”
“No,” she cried suddenly, “for that is Christmas. And the house will be sad—in mourning. No! You must make me live. You must make them think I am getting well.”
“Ah, if we only could! But I must not deceive you any longer. I said two weeks—but it will not be that long.”
“It will—it must be!” she said, suddenly rising in bed. “We will pray God, and you will help, and I will. There must be some sort of tonic—a stimulant—tell me—tell me there is! You must not spoil their Christmas—on—on my account!”
She smiled a little at the odd ending of her phrase and dropped back upon the pillow, flushed and brilliant, splendid, so that even the doctor was deceived, and hoped.
“If you can do that—keep up such a vigor by hope and happiness, the hope of happiness for others—perhaps, with God’s help, we can—do what you wish.”
“Of course we can. I know it!”