creature to wonder where another would accept. She saw it had seemed noble
because Bernal must have been up to some deviltry.

This phrase would not be Nancy's--only she knew it to be the way her
uncle, for example, would translate Allan's praise of his brother. She
hoped Bernal had not been very bad--and wondered _how_ bad.

Then she went to him. Her first little knock brought no answer, nor could
she be sure that the second did. But she knew it was loud enough to be
heard if the room were occupied, so she gently opened the door a crack and
peeped in. He lay on the big couch across the room under the open window,
a scarlet wool dressing-gown on, and a steamer-rug thrown over the lower
part of his body. He seemed to be looking out and up to the tree that
appeared above the window. She thought he could not have heard her, but he
called:

"Clytie!"

She crossed the room and bent a little over to meet his eyes when he
weakly turned his head on the pillow.

"Nancy!"

He began to laugh, sliding a thin hand toward one of hers. The laugh did
not end until there were tears in his eyes. She laughed with him as a
strong-voiced singer would help a weaker, and he tried to put a friendly
force into his grip of the firm-fleshed little hand he had found.

"Don't be flattered, Nance--it's only typhoid emotion," he said at last,
in a voice that sounded strangely unused. "You don't really overcome me,