Ted did not answer. His remaining strength failed him, and he dropped upon the grass by Hubert's side, but his eyes still appealed.
"Are you sick?"
"Starving," answered Ted, hardly above a whisper.
A wave of compassion swept over the old man. He almost leaped to the fire; and, quickly dipping something from the pot into a tin cup, he blew his breath upon it several times in order to cool it, then hurried back to the prostrate boys, knelt beside them, and offered the cup to Ted. But the boy gently pushed it away and motioned toward his cousin, indicating that Hubert was in the greater need and should be attended to first.
Having partaken of the nourishment which presently was offered him in turn, Ted fell asleep, or fainted—he could not afterward tell which—and there followed a blank. When he again opened his eyes and looked about him, he lay on a bed of moss covered with blankets in what was evidently a log cabin of one large room. In a few moments the door, which stood ajar, was thrown wide, and the old man of the long white beard entered the room, a cheerful expression appearing on his kindly face as he met the boy's eye.
"You feel better now, I reckon," he said, seating himself on a pile of moss near Ted's bed.
"Where am I?" The boy's voice was weak but eager.
"In my house," was the reassuring reply. "You've been pretty bad off—sort o' wanderin' in yer mind. But you're all right now."
"Where's Hubert?" The boy's voice was now stronger, but indicated anxiety.
"He's outside. He got up and went out this mornin'. He's all right. He had fever from cold and exposure, but you was the sickest of the two. You've been on a harder strain, I reckon."