“What was the result?” asked Mrs. Pitcairn.

“One was Mrs. Wilson, an elderly lady; the other her grandson, and a nephew of Mr. Chisholm,” replied the doctor, not answering the question.

“What was the result?” repeated Mr. Pitcairn for his wife.

The doctor shook his head, and, with his eyes on the flaming face of Jim Travers, whispered,—­

“All three died within twenty-four hours after being taken.”

Tom Gordon’s eyes filled with tears.

“O Doctor! is it as bad as that?”

“I am sorry to say it is.  We shall hope for the best with this young man.  Give him the medicine every hour, and I will call again this evening.  You have all been exposed to whatever danger there is in the air, so you need not be alarmed.”

“It wouldn’t make any difference about that,” said Tom; “I’m going to stay with him, and do all I can.  I don’t care whether or not I catch the fever.”

“That is more creditable to your heart than your head.  Don’t forget,” said the doctor, speaking to all, “to watch yourselves closely.  At the first appearance of headache, ringing in the ears, and fever, take those powders that I have left on the stand.  This is one of the cases where an ounce of prevention is worth a good many pounds of cure.  Nothing more can be done for the boy than to follow the prescription I have given you.  I will be here again in the evening, unless he should become much worse, when you can send for me.”

Tom Gordon will never forget that day and night.  He refused to leave the bedside of his friend except for a few minutes.  The farmer and his wife were equally faithful, and did all they could for the sufferer, whose condition seemed to show a slight improvement toward the latter part of the afternoon.  So much so indeed that all felt hope.

Jim slept at intervals, but continually muttered and flung himself about.  There were flashes of consciousness, when he would look fixedly at those around his bed, and smile in his winning way.  He thanked them for their kindness, and hoped he would get well; but he had never felt so strange.  It seemed as if his head was continually lifting his body upward, and he was so light he could fly.

After lying this way for some minutes, his hand, which rested in that of Tom’s, would suddenly tighten with incredible strength, and he would rise in bed and begin a wild, incoherent rambling, which filled the hearts of the others with anguish.

It was just growing dusk, when Jim, who had exchanged a few words of sense with his weeping friend, said, lying motionless on his pillow, and without apparent excitement,—­

“Tom, I’m dying.”

“O Jim! don’t say that,” sobbed the broken-hearted lad.  “You must get well.  You are young and strong; you must throw off this sickness:  keep up a good heart.”

The poor boy shook his head.

“It’s no use.  I wish I had been a better boy; but I’ve said my prayers night and morning, and tried to do as mother and father used to tell me to do.  Tom, try to be better; I tell you, you won’t be sorry when you come to die.”