The vision of hills and prairies around me harmonized with the dreamy sensations that filled my heavy head and tired body.  I sat on deck and viewed it all.  I did not go to the table.  The very smell of the food nauseated me.  I do not remember how I got to bed, nor how long I was there.  I remember being brought to by a negro porter who told me that we were approaching Bath where I was to get off.  I heard him say to another porter:  “That boy is sure sick.”  And then a tall spare man came to me, told me that he was taking the stage as I was, and was going almost to Jacksonville, and that he would see me through.  He helped me in the stage and we started.  I remember nothing further....

I became conscious of parti-colored ribbons fluttering from my body as if blown by a rapid breeze from a central point of fixture in my breast.  Was it the life going out of me, or the life clinging to me in spite of the airs of eternity?  My eyes opened.  I saw standing at the foot of the bed, an octoroon about fourteen years of age.  She was staring at me with anxious and sympathetic eyes, in which there was also a light of terror.  I tried to lift my hands.  I could not.  I was unable to turn my body.  I was completely helpless.  I looked about the room.  It was small, papered in a figure of blue.  Two windows stared me in the face.  “Where am I?” I asked.  “Yo’s in Miss Spurgeon’s house ... yo’s in good hands.”  At that moment Miss Spurgeon entered.  She was slender, graceful.  Her hair was very black.  Her eyes gray and hazel.  Her nose delicate and exquisitely shaped.  She put her hand on my brow and in a voice which had a musical quaver, she said:  “I believe the fever has left you.  Yes, it has.  Would you like something to eat?” I was famished and said:  “Yes, something, if you please.”  She went out, returning with some gruel.  Turning to the octoroon she said:  “Will you feed him, Zoe?” And Zoe came to the chair by the bed and fed me, for I could not lift a hand.  Then I fell into a refreshing sleep.  I had been ill of typhoid.  Had I contracted it from the oysters, or from food on the steamer?  But I had been saved.  Miss Spurgeon had refused to let the doctor bleed me.  She believed that careful nursing would suffice, and she had brought me through.  But I had a relapse.  I was allowed to eat what I craved.  I indulged my inordinate hunger, and came nearer to death than with the fever itself.  But from this I rallied by the strength of my youth and a great vitality.  All the while Zoe and Miss Spurgeon watched over me with the most tender care.  And one day I came out of a sleep to find Reverdy Clayton by the bed.

A father could not have looked at me with more solicitude.  His voice was grave and tender.  His eyes bright with sympathy.  “You will soon be well again,” he said.  He took my hand, sat down by me, cautioned me not to worry about my business affairs, told me that nothing would happen adverse to my interests while I was incapacitated, that Mr. Brooks was guarding my affairs and that they were not in peril....  And it turned out that Miss Spurgeon was his fiancee, that it was to her that he had returned from Chicago.  They were soon now to be married.  I asked him if Zoe was a slave.  He laughed at this.  “No one born in Illinois is a slave,” he said.  “This is a free country.  Zoe was born here.”