everything that you might do being well."

He waved his thin hand with a sort of indignation. "Then, father, I am
not ill," he cried. "Oh, I thought when you came you would not stop
me,--you would see the sense of it! What do you think is the matter with
me, all of you? Simson is well enough; but he is only a doctor. What do
you think is the matter with me? I am no more ill than you are. A doctor,
of course, he thinks you are ill the moment he looks at you--that's what
he's there for--and claps you into bed."

"Which is the best place for you at present, my dear boy."

"I made up my mind," cried the little fellow, "that I would stand it till
you came home. I said to myself, I won't frighten mother and the girls.
But now, father," he cried, half jumping out of bed, "it's not illness:
it's a secret."

His eyes shone so wildly, his face was so swept with strong feeling, that
my heart sank within me. It could be nothing but fever that did it, and
fever had been so fatal. I got him into my arms to put him back into
bed. "Roland," I said, humoring the poor child, which I knew was the
only way, "if you are going to tell me this secret to do any good, you
know you must be quite quiet, and not excite yourself. If you excite
yourself, I must not let you speak."

"Yes, father," said the boy. He was quiet directly, like a man, as if he
quite understood. When I had laid him back on his pillow, he looked up at
me with that grateful, sweet look with which children, when they are ill,
break one's heart, the water coming into his eyes in his weakness. "I was
sure as soon as you were here you would know what to do," he said.