“And Ruth?”
“She is very ill, but quieter than she has been, and the fever is a little abating. The most dangerous time will be when the fever leaves her. The doctor fears she will not have strength enough to rally from it. Yes, thee can see her.”
Mrs. Bolton led the way to the little chamber where Ruth lay. “Oh,” said her mother, “if she were only in her cool and spacious room in our old home. She says that seems like heaven.”
Mr. Bolton sat by Ruth’s bedside, and he rose and silently pressed Philip’s hand. The room had but one window; that was wide open to admit the air, but the air that came in was hot and lifeless. Upon the table stood a vase of flowers. Ruth’s eyes were closed; her cheeks were flushed with fever, and she moved her head restlessly as if in pain.
“Ruth,” said her mother, bending over her, “Philip is here.”
Ruth’s eyes unclosed, there was a gleam of recognition in them, there was an attempt at a smile upon her face, and she tried to raise her thin hand, as Philip touched her forehead with his lips; and he heard her murmur,
“Dear Phil.”
