She was crouching at his feet, and he stooped over her, taking her in his arms, drawing her back between his knees.
"You noble, beloved thing ..."
The burning touch of his lips and face reminded her that he was ill, so the consecration of her sacrifice lost a little of its joy.
"You're feverish—you should ought to go to bed."
"I'm going—when I've had another cup of tea. Will you give me another, child?"
"I've a mind to go home through Brodnyx and ask Dr. Taylor to call round."
"Oh, I don't think I'm bad enough for a doctor—I catch cold easily, and I was wet through the other night."
"Was it that!" Her voice shook with consternation.
"I expect so—but don't fret, darling Jo. It's nothing. I'll be quite right to-morrow—I feel better already."
"I think you should ought to see a doctor, though. I'll call in on my way back. I'll can in on Mr. Pratt, too, and tell him to start crying us next Sunday."