Agatha’s voice was trembling.  Aleck watched her as she told her tale, the flush of happiness and joy still lighting up his face.  As she finished relating the meager facts which to her denoted so many heart-throbs, a sob drowned her voice.  As Aleck followed the story, his own eyes wavered.

“That’s Jim, down to the ground.  Good old boy!” he said.

There was silence for a minute, then he heard Agatha’s voice, grown little and faint.  “If he should die—!”

Aleck, still standing by Agatha’s couch, suddenly shook himself.  “Where is he?  Can I see him now?”

Agatha got up slowly and led the way down the hall, pointing to a door that stood ajar.  It was evident that she was weak.

“I can’t go in—­I can’t bear to see him so ill,” she whispered; and as Aleck looked at her before entering the sick-room, he saw that her eyes were filled with tears.

Agatha went back to her couch, feeling that the heavens had opened.  Here was a friend come to her from she knew not where, whose right it was to assume responsibility for the sick man.  He was kind and good, and he loved her rescuer with the boyish devotion of their school-days.  He would surely help; he would work with her to keep death away.  Whatever love and professional skill could do, should be done; there had been no question as to that, of course, from the beginning.  But here was some one who would double, yes, more than double her own efforts; some one who was strong and well and capable.  Her heart was thankful.

Before Aleck returned from the sick-room, Doctor Thayer’s step sounded on the stairs, followed by the mildly complaining voice of Sallie Kingsbury.  Presently the two men were in a low-voiced conference in the hall.  Agatha waited while they talked, feeling grateful afresh that Doctor Thayer’s grim professional wisdom was to be reinforced by Mr. Van Camp’s resources.  When the doctor entered Agatha’s room, her face had almost the natural flush of health.

“Ah, Miss Agatha Redmond”—­the doctor continued frequently to address her by her full name, half in affectionate deference and half with some dry sense of humor peculiar to himself—­“Miss Agatha Redmond, so you’re beginning to pick up!  A good thing, too; for I don’t want two patients in one house like the one out yonder.  He’s a very sick man, Miss Agatha.”

“I know, Doctor.  I have seen him grow worse, hour by hour, ever since we came.  What can be done?”

“He needs special nursing now, and your man in there will be worn out presently.”

“Oh, that can be managed.  Send to Portland, to Boston, or somewhere.  We can get a nurse here soon.  Do not spare any trouble.  Doctor.  I can arrange—­”

Doctor Thayer squared himself and paced slowly up and down Agatha’s room.  He did not reply at once, and when he did, it was with one of his characteristic turns toward an apparently irrelevant topic.