"You will soon be about again, my darling," said Frank, in his low, earnest, hopeful tones, that were worth more than gold in a sick chamber. "Tymms assures me you are better this morning."
"I don't want to get about," faintly responded Daisy.
"Not want to get about!" cried Frank, uncertain whether it would be best to treat the remark as a passing fancy arising from weakness, or to inquire farther into it—for everything said by his wife now bore this depressing tenor.
"And you ought to know that I cannot wish it," she resumed.
"But I do not know it, Daisy, my love. I do not know why you should speak so."
"I shall be glad to die."
Frank bent a little lower, putting down the fan. "Daisy, I honestly believe that you will recover; that the turning-point has come and gone. Tymms thinks so. Why, yesterday you could not have talked as you are talking now."
"I know I am dying. And it is so much the better for me."
He put his hand under the pillow, raising it slightly to bring her face nearer his, and spoke very tenderly and persuasively. He knew that she was not dying; that she was, in fact, improving.
"My darling, you are getting better; and will get better. But, were it as you think, Daisy, all the more reason would exist for telling me what you mean, and why you have so long been in this depressed state of mind. Let me know the cause, Daisy."