Even
in the darkness he could see her big, dark eyes. Her teeth no longer
chattered, but there was a perilous quaver in her low, tense voice.
She put out a hand to touch him. He drew back.
"I'll be as fit as a fiddle in no time at all," he said hurriedly.
"See you tomorrow, Rosie,--or as soon as the blamed old doctor
turns me loose. I've got to be on my way now. He's waiting for me
up there. May have to put a stitch in my mug,--and yank my leg like
the devil, but--"
She still blocked his path.
"Courtney, I'm--I'm terribly unhappy. I want to see you,--very
soon."
"I hear you have been ill, Rosie. Some one was telling me you were
looking thin and--and all that sort of thing. I hope you're feeling
better."
She waited a moment. When she spoke it was with difficulty.
"I'm awfully worried, Courtney," she cried, her voice little more
than a whisper. He was silent, so after a little while she went
on: "I wish I could die,--I wish I could die!"
"Come, come!" he said reassuringly. "You must not talk like that,
Rosie. Cheer up! You're too young to talk about dying. Think what
I've been through,--and I'm still alive! I'll run over tomorrow,--or
next day,--and try to cheer you up a bit, little girl. So long.
I've got to see the doctor. I'm--I'm suffering like the dickens."
"I mustn't keep you, Courtney," she murmured, stepping aside to
let him pass.
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