"You have been ill to death, my lad, and but for this little woman, and the calomel and jalap, would have surely died."
"I know it; and except for her I'd not care to live," I answered, my throat filling. Nothing, indeed, could exceed my love for the sweet girl, and it added to my happiness now to think I should always owe my life to her and her tender care.
As I grew stronger, Setti came and sat beside me, and I have ever been grateful for this chance that made the gentle being known to me. For with her shy ways I else had never known her as the tender and good in woman should be by those who hold them in respect. As I gained strength Uncle Job's visits were more frequent, but further than caressing my hand or face he scarce said a word, so soft was his heart. The great care with which they watched over me I must believe to have been needed; for one day, when I disregarded some order of Constance's, I fell into such a dreadful faint that all their efforts to bring me to were vain, until Uncle Job and the doctor had been sent for; and thus I found them grouped about my bed when I revived. When at last I had gained strength and was pronounced out of danger, I one day asked Constance if Aunt Jane had been to see me, thinking it strange if she had not, even in one so cold. For a time Constance did not reply, and when she did it was not like her, but as if she were acting a part.
"No, your aunt has not been here, Gilbert. Do you care much?"
"I don't know. Only I thought she might have come while I was sick."
"It's so far, Gilbert, you know."
"So far! her farm is scarce half an hour's ride, Constance. She can't care for me. Or haven't you told her?"
"No, she doesn't know, Gilbert."
"Oh," I answered, not wondering much, but still feeling as if she ought to have been told. "Didn't you want her to know?"
"We thought to write her, but put it off from day to day, hoping you would be better."