At last he recognised me and tried to talk, but his speech was thick and nothing but a jabber of sounds.
He cast his eyes down his right side as if to draw my attention to something. His eyes, somehow, seemed the only real live part of him. I examined him carefully and saw what he meant.
Poor fellow! Tears ran down my cheeks in pity for him.
His right side was numb and paralysed.
I hurried over to Mary's. She and Mrs. Malmsbury returned with me and attended him, hand and foot, until the minister came in late that afternoon.
Mr. Auld was a medical missionary, and he confirmed what I had feared. Jake had had a stroke.
The only articulate words Meaghan uttered in his mumblings were, "Rita, Rita, Rita." Again and again he came over the name. At last I promised him I would run over and bring her to him.
That seemed to content him, but his eyes still kept roving round restlessly.
Mr. Auld injected some morphine through Jake's arm in order to give his brain the rest that it evidently sorely needed.
"There is little we can do, George," said the minister. "He may be all right to-morrow, but for his physical helplessness;—and, even that may abate. Between you and me, I pray to God he may not live."