Aladdin, no longer violent, into his bed, while the doctor, in
a soft voice, said what maybe it was and what maybe it
wasn't,--he leaned to a bilious fever,--and prescribed this
and that as sovereign in any case. They darkened the room,
and Aladdin was sick with typhoid fever for many weeks. He
was delirious much too much, and Mrs. Brackett got thin with
watching. Occasionally it seemed as if he might possibly
live, but oftenest as if he would surely die.

In his delirium for the most part Aladdin dwelt upon Margaret,
so that his love for her was an old story to Mrs. Brackett.
One gay spring morning, after a terrible night, Aladdin's
fever cooled a little, and he was able to talk in whispers.

"Mrs. Brackett," he said, "Mrs. Brackett."

She came hurriedly to the bed.

"I know you're feelin' better, 'Laddin O'Brien."

He smiled up at her.

"Mrs. Brackett," he said, "I dreamed that Margaret St. John
came here to ask how I was--did she?"

Margaret hadn't. She had not, so hedged was her life, even
heard that Aladdin lay sick.

Mrs. Brackett lied nobly.