The great Dr. Blanding had been summoned then. The case must be critical. Yet only three days before he had heard from Daisy, and she was well.
"What is the disease?" he steadied his voice to ask.
"Typhoid pneumonia," his companion briefly answered.
They reached the house. Edward met him at the door.
"Calm yourself, Ray," he said, soothingly. "She is calling piteously for you, and for her sake you must be calm."
"For her sake!" Edward could not have used wiser words. By a mighty effort Ray gained control of himself. He was very pale, but outwardly calm, as he entered the sick room. He bent over the sufferer, fair and beautiful even in her delirium, and never so inexpressibly dear to him as now.
"Daisy, I have come," he said, gently.
"I am so glad," she answered, with a deep sigh, and dropped off into a quiet slumber.
Hour after hour Ray sat there, and day after day. At times Daisy was herself, and conversed understandingly with him. At other times she was in a wild delirium, and talked incessantly of what she called Ray's mistake, and now God would bless him no more. She would plead with him to be true to duty; again she would beg him piteously not to leave her.
From the outset the doctors had given but little hopes of her recovery. Every effort to reduce the extreme temperature had been unavailing, and each day she grew weaker. One Sunday morning she came out from a prolonged stupor very feeble, but perfectly rational. She smiled at Ray, and said, with deep pathos that brought tears to his eyes: