"He's all right, for the present, if he doesn't have pneumonia. My dear child!" for Frances went white to the lips.
"No!" she steadied herself, "I'm not going to faint! Thank God!"
The doctor laid his hand on her shoulder gently, "I shall send for your father at once, and when he comes you must go."
"Why should I?" she flashed. "He needs—"
"Nothing that we cannot do!" And he listened to no argument. He scarcely allowed the professor to stay long enough to let slip from his lips the joy that brimmed his heart, but with significant look at his daughter sent them homewards at once.
It was dusk then, and they went quietly both with joy in their hearts, and both with memory, likewise. The father, all the deep waters of his life stirred by the despair and the gratitude held so closely together, saw, as in a vision, the love of his life who had driven along this way so often by his side, and sent his whole heart out to the memory of her. His daughter saw first a pleading, earnest face, and then the white unconscious one; listened to earnest words, that pleaded more strongly now the speaker's lips were closed, remembered all the thoughtfulness and kindliness in which she had read only friendliness, and in which she read now deep, strong love, a love that placed her own happiness above all else. To each their vision, sweet and bitter, bitter and sweet.