But Daisy was not to be stopped, and she went on: 

“Tom is good, though; so good, but awkward, and I like him ever so much, but I can’t be his wife.  I cannot.  I cannot.”

“He doesn’t expect it now, or want it,” came huskily from Tom, while Daisy quickly asked: 

“Doesn’t he?”

“No, never any more; so, put it from your mind and try to sleep,” Tom said, and again the freckled hands smoothed the tumbled pillows and wiped the sweat drops from Daisy’s face, while all the time the great kind heart was breaking, and the hot tears were rolling down the sun-burned face Daisy thought was so ugly.

Tom had heard from Madame Lafarcade of Guy’s marriage, and, like her, understood why Daisy’s fever ran so high and her mind was in such a turmoil.  But for himself he knew there was no hope, and with a feeling of death in his heart he watched by her day and night, yielding his place to no one, and saying to madame when she remonstrated with him and bade him care for his own health: 

“It does not matter to me.  I would rather die than not.”

Daisy was better when her mother came—­saved, the doctor said, more by Tom’s care and nursing than by his own skill, and then Tom gave up his post and never went near her unless she asked for him.  His “red hair and freckled face” were constantly in his mind, making him loathe the very sight of himself.

“She cannot bear my looks, and I will not force myself upon her,” he said; and so he stayed away, but surrounded her with every luxury money could buy, and, as soon as she was able, had her removed to a pretty little cottage which he rented and fitted up for her, and where she would be more at home and quieter than at Madame Lafarcade’s.

And there, one morning when he called to inquire for her, he, too, was smitten down with the fever which he had taken with Daisy’s breath the many nights and days he watched her without rest or sufficient food.  There was a faint, followed by a long interval of unconsciousness, and when he came to himself he was in Daisy’s own room, lying on Daisy’s little bed, and Daisy herself was bending anxiously over him with a flush on her white cheeks and a soft, pitiful look in her blue eyes.

“What is it?  Where am I?” he asked, and Daisy replied: 

“You are here in my room—­on my bed; and you’ve got the fever, and I’m going to take care of you, and I’m so glad.  Not glad you have the fever,” she added, as she met his look of wonder, “but glad I can repay in part all you did for me, you dear, noble Tom!  And you are not to talk,” and she laid her small hand on his mouth as she saw him about to speak.  “I am strong enough; the doctor says so, and I’d do it if he didn’t, for you are the best, the truest friend I have.”

She was rubbing his hot, feverish hands, and though the touch of her cool, soft fingers was so delicious, poor Tom thought of the big freckles so obnoxious to the little lady, and, drawing his hands from her grasp, hid them beneath the clothes.  Gladly, too, would he have covered his face and hair from her sight, but this he could not do and breathe, but he begged her to leave him and send someone in her place.  But Daisy would not listen to him.