William. He was looking at the dark face with the darker lines beneath
the eyes. "You'll hev an easier time," he said. "It's been putty hard on
you."

"Oh, I don't mind," quickly, "--only the misunderstandings--and the
quarrels--"

"That was the fever," said Uncle William.

"But _I_ didn't have the fever," said the girl. "I might have been
patient."

"Well, I reckon the Angil Gabriel himself'd quarrel with a man that
had one of them intermittent fevers," said the old man thoughtfully.
"They're powerful trying'. You feel better--a little--and you perk up
and think you're goin' to get well, and then, fust thing you know, there
you are--all to do over again. If I had my ch'ice of all the diseases in
the calendar, that's the one I _wouldn't_ take. Some on 'em you hev
the comfort of knowin' you'll die of 'em--if ye live long enough." He
chuckled a little. "But this one, ye can't die and ye can't get well."

"But _he_ is going to get well?" The girl's eyes held him.

"Yes, he'll be all right if he can set out in the wind a spell--and
the sun. The fever's broke. What he wants now is plenty to eat and good
company. You'll be comin' up to see us byme-by, mebbe?" He looked at her
hopefully.

"Do you think I could?"