[Illustration: "She was making an aeolian harp."]
"Thank you," Paul Colbert said. "What beautiful things you think of,
what lovely things you do!"
She turned quickly with a smile and a blush, and came to the bedside.
"Why--you were not to wake up yet! It's much too early for a sick man to
open his eyes."
"But I am not a sick man any longer. I am almost well. I could get up
now, if I wished," jestingly, "I am getting well as fast as I can, just
to convict the other doctor of a mistaken diagnosis. What a fine old
fellow he is!" with a quick change to earnestness. "How kind he has
been, how untiring in his attention and goodness to me. And so skilful,
too. I am ashamed of my presumption. A mere beginner like myself, to
question his methods in dealing with the Cold Plague! I don't believe he
made the mistakes they said he did. He couldn't!"
It was an unlucky recollection. The thought of this mysterious epidemic
which had grown worse, till it was now devastating the whole country,
made him suddenly restless. His patients were needing him sorely while
he lay here, still bound hand and foot by weakness.
Pages:
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351