"Wish poor Limpy was here too," remarked Ned Eaton, as he drained his glass of sarsaparilla. "Does any one know how he is to-night?"
"Dreadful bad," answered Teddy Todd. "They think he's dyin'."
"What! Is he so sick as that?" and Kit's voice sounded sharp and unnatural.
"Yes; he took cold that day before the storm; fever set in, and the doctor says he won't get well."
It was nine o'clock, and the little seaside town was settling down to sleepy repose, when a timid knock summoned Eileen to the Fergusons' humble portal. Her eyes were red and swollen, as could be seen by the blazing pine-knot she carried, and her lips quivered as she cried: "Kit Bundy at this hour! What brings you here?"
"To see Jem. Stop, Eileen! Don't say I can't, for I must, indeed I must. I know I've been mean to him and rude to you, but there is something I must tell him before he dies."
There was so much wild anxiety in his manner and imploring in his tone that the curt refusal on the girl's tongue was hushed, and instead she said, "Come, then; only don't stay long," and led the way to the dreary room where Jem lay. A wan smile flitted across his face at sight of his guest, and he murmured:
"Howdy, Kit; do you know, I guess I'll get my wish, after all, and fly away like the luck-birds."
With a low cry, however, the older lad threw himself down beside the bed, and sobbed: "No, no, Limpy; don't say that. You must stop and be comfortable and happy here, for see, this is yours, all yours"; and he flung upon the patchwork quilt the roll of bills paid him by Mrs. Landon.