Then Garth raised himself in his bed.
“Give me paper—paper and a pen—quick, quick!” he cried.
“What would you write, Joe?” said Rotha.
“I want to write to him—to Ralph—Ralph Ray,” he said, in a voice quite unlike his own.
Rotha ran to the chest in the kitchen and opened it. In a side shelf pens were there and paper too. She came back, and put them before the sick man.
But he was unconscious of what she had done.
She looked into his face. His eyes seemed not to see.
“The paper and pen!” he cried again, yet more eagerly.
She put the quill into his hand and spread the paper before him.
“What writing is this,” he cried, pointing to the white sheet; “this writing in red?”