Kate turned pale.
"Oh, Harry, for Heaven's sake don't think that! The fever has left the village; why should you have it now?"
He did not reply. The heavy stupor that deadened every sense bore him down, and took away the power of speech. His eyes closed, and in another moment he had dropped off into a deep, lethargic sleep.
Kate arose and went out into the corridor, where she found Ogden waiting.
"He has fallen asleep," she said. "I want you to undress him, and get him into bed properly, while I go and prepare a saline draught. I am afraid he is going to be very ill."
She passed on, and ran down stairs to her father's study, where the medicine-chest stood. It took her some time to prepare the saline draught; and when she returned to the bed-chamber, Ogden had finished his task, and the sick man was safely in bed. He still slept—heavily, deep—but his breathing was laboured and his lips parched.
"I will give him this when he awakes," Kate said; "and I will sit up with him all night. You can remain in the next room, Ogden, so as to be within call, if wanted."
Kate remained by her sick brother through the long hours of that wintry night. She sat by the bedside, bathing the hot face and fevered hands, and holding cooling drinks to the dry lips. The shaded lamp lit the room dimly, too dimly to see to read; so she sat patiently, listening to the snow-storm, and watching her sick brother's face. In the next room Mr. Ogden slept the sleep of the just, in an arm-chair, his profound snoring making a sort of accompaniment to the howling of the wind.
The slow, slow hours dragged away, and morning came. It found the patient worse, weak, prostrated, and deadly sick, but not delirious.
"I know I have the fever, Kate," he said, in a weak whisper; "I am glad of it. I only hope it will be merciful, and take me off."