"Where am I?" said Gibby, as the nurse came toward the bed. "I have not seen Betty McGrath this morning, and I promised Father Phil that I would."
"You must not ask questions," said the nurse quietly. "Dr. Durie will soon be here."
And after that with a curious readiness Gibby slipped back into a drowsy dream of gathering flowers with Jemima Girnigo; but somehow it was another Jemima—so young she seemed, so fair. Crisp curls glanced beneath her hat brim. Young blood mantled in changeful blushes on her cheeks. Her pale eyes, which had always been a little watery, were now blue and bright as a mountain tarn on a day without clouds. He had never seen so fair and joyous a thing.
"Jemima," he said, or seemed to himself to say, "what is the matter with you? You are different somehow."
"It is all because you love me, Gilbert," she answered, and smiled up at him. "Ever since you told me that, I have grown younger every hour; and, do you know, I have found the Grass of Parnassus at last. It grows by the Gate into the Upper Garden?"
* * * * *
"Hello, Denholm, clothed and in your right mind, eh? That's right!"
It was the cheerful voice of his friend, Dr. Durie, as he stood by Gibby's bedside.
"What has been the matter with me, Durie?" said Gilbert, though in his heart he knew.
"You have had bad small-pox, my boy; and have had a hot chance to find out whether you have been speaking the truth in your sermons."