"Yes." Helen was touched by the fact that John had taken pains to conceal his identity by giving his middle name to the woman.
He had been taken ill in the night, Mrs. Harding told her, and she had found him delirious in the morning. She had sent for a physician—Doctor Wing—who seemed to think the case critical, and wanted him taken to some hospital, where he could have better air, and a constant attendant; but, Mrs. Harding explained, she felt she ought to come and talk with madam before consenting to the move.
"That was right," observed Helen, who had been thinking rapidly while the woman was talking. "I knew Mr.—Williams years ago in San Francisco, and I am sure his friends would not wish him sent to a hospital. He told me he intended to start for California to-day—he had his ticket—so his friends will be looking for him next week."
"Well, marm, it is my opinion that he'll never see San Francisco again," said the woman, with a grave shake of her head.
"Oh!" cried Helen sharply; "is he as ill as that?"
Was John going to die, after all? She was shocked through and through at the thought. No, he must not—he should not! She could never forgive herself for the dreadful things she had thought and said the night before, if he did.
Had her repentance come too late? Was she to have no opportunity to prove the sincerity of her desire to put into practice the higher interpretation of love to which she was beginning to awake?
"He's an awful sick man, marm," her companion replied.
"When will Doctor Wing go to see him again?"
"He said he'd drop in about six o'clock."