"Bravely; at least it looks nice. Please come and tell me if 'tis ready to be taken off."
"It will be in a moment. Run out and get me a handful of leaves from that young peach tree, to flavor it with."
He obeyed, she stirring the custard and commending Ada's industry, while he was gone.
"Here they are, mother; is this enough?" he asked, coming back.
"Quite," she said taking them from him; then as her hand touched his, "Rupert," she cried with anguish in her tones, "you are sick! burning up with fever!"
"Heated over the stove, mother," he said, trying to laugh it off, as he lifted the kettle from the fire and poured its contents into a bowl.
"No, I am not to be deceived," she answered in a choking voice, "you ought to be in bed now."
He shook his head. "Somebody must keep up; several somebodies to take anything like proper care of the sick ones. And, mother, I'm as able as you are; you look dreadfully worn and ill."
She was all that; she felt the chills creeping over her at that moment, and her head seemed ready to burst; her heart also.