They sat by the fireside, for even in mid-June the night was chilly. A few scattered ashes showed at the lowest bar of the grate. Laura had raked out the fire that had been lit to warm her father.
Papa, she explained, was not always as Mr. Prothero saw him now. His illness came from a sunstroke.
He said, yes; he had seen cases like that in India.
"Then, do you think——"
She paused, lest she should seem to be asking for a professional opinion.
"Do I think? What do I think?"
"That he'll get better?"
He was silent a long time.
"No," he said. "But he need never be any worse. You mustn't be afraid."
"I am afraid. I'm afraid all the time."