three weeks ago he would have times of partial recovery--days when he
seemed perfectly well. So no one has guessed how really ill he is, and
they suppose now that he has gone away from the city to recuperate. No
one, except me, knows that he is still in his rooms. The door is locked
and no one answers if you go there. I am writing you as a last resort.
He has told me about you--how good you were to him last summer--"


Uncle William looked up, perplexed. "Sho, now! What does she mean by
that? I didn't do nuthin'--nuthin' to speak of."


"I feel as if he would let you in and let you do things for him. He has
talked about you to me, since he came back; and in his illness, earlier,
when the fever was on, he would call for you--talking and muttering in
his sleep. If you could come down for a little while, I feel almost
sure that it would give him the start he needs. The fever makes him
distrustful of every one, but I know that he would see you. I am
inclosing a check for the trip. It is really money that belongs to
him--to Alan. He gave me last year a beautiful present--something far
too expensive for him to give; and now that he needs the money--needs
to see you--more than I need the jewel. I am sending it to you, begging
that you will come very soon if you can. Alan said that he had told you
about me. You will not wonder who I am or why I am writing. I hope that
I shall see you and know you when you come.

"Sincerely yours,

"SERGIA LVOVA."