"Is he worse?" she asked breathlessly.
"Better—in one way," the young American answered. "He's conscious now. He's had some of the soup you sent along."
"Can I see him?" she begged.
"He's just been speaking of you. He told me to ask you not to come near him again."
She choked back a dry sob, and had pushed past him into the room before he could interfere.
"I'll sit with him for an hour or two now, while you get a sleep," she said, and stifled another sob as she saw how the sick man's sunken eyes grew glad at sight of her.
Nor did anything that the acting doctor could urge make any difference in her determination; and she hushed the mate's whispered protests with a brave smile.
"We're going to pull you through, Rube, between us," she whispered back, bending over him. "And you're going to obey orders for the present, instead of giving them. So don't say any more about it now."
She had seated herself on a camp-stool beside him. Carthew, convinced that it would be futile to argue any further with her, was evidently only too glad to stretch himself on the sofa and draw the curtains. And almost at once he fell fast asleep.
It was very nearly midnight before he moved and woke and sprang to his feet. And Sallie was still sitting there with one of the mate's huge hands between both of hers.