"Mortimer?" said the sick man.
Then the dream melted, and the common-looking brick buildings came back again.
"The doctor thought I could not live?" said the man, inquiringly.
"He thought there was little hope," replied Mortimer. "But doctors are not fortune-tellers," he added, cheerfully.
"I feel that he is right—little hope. Where is Daisy?"
"She has lain down for a moment. Shall I call her?"
"Wearied! Poor angel; she watched me last night. I did not sleep much. I closed my eyes, and she smiled to think that I was slumbering quietly. No; do not call her."
After a pause, the sick man said:
"Wet my lips, I have something to tell you."
Mortimer moistened his feverish lips, and sat on the bed-side.