“The only mistake is that you don’t know yourself,” he said.

And the tears that had welled up to my eyes fell so fast, and I was so choked, that I turned from work, thinking to escape into mother’s bedroom and hide myself; but my eye caught sight of a letter in his hand unopened, and love for Hal rose above all my foolish tears, and so I stood quietly waiting the denouement.

“Come into the other room with me, Emily; I have something to tell you.”

He sat down on the little chintz-covered lounge, and I beside him.

“Emily, you are a strong woman, your heart will beat fast, but you will neither scream nor faint when I tell you; your brother is ill.  There was a letter in the office and also a telegram at the depot.  What will be done, who can go to him?”

I did not scream or faint as he had said, but I clasped my hands tightly and shut my eyes as if some terrible sight was before me, while my poor heart grieved and brain reeled, as I thought, “Oh! he will die, poor Hal! alone among strangers, and how would our patient mother bear it, and what should we do!”

My face was white, I know, for grief always blanched my face and brought those terribly silent tears, that fall like solemn rain drops—­each a tongue.  You must remember that I was a smothered fire in those days.

Louis put his strong arm around me, and stroked my forehead as if I were a child and he my mother.

“He will not die, little flower, thy brother will live; you must go to him, and I will go with you.  You must not go alone to a great city.”

“Oh Louis!” I said, “he had only just begun to love me when he went away, and now if he dies, what shall I do without him?  Prayers have but little weight, they ought to have saved him, I have prayed so long, so hard, Louis, for his safety.  But I must tell mother.”  And when she heard me, and I said I must go to him, she sat down as if in despair; but a moment after looked almost cheerful as she said: 

“You must start to-night, my dear, and I must get all the little medicines I can think of ready for you to take, and as soon as he is able he must come home.  If it is a fever, I fear for his lungs.”

Clara waited until our talk was over, and then came and said Louis must go with me; put into my hands a well filled purse, and said: 

“Bring the brother back, dear cousin; don’t wait for him to get well; bring him back on a bed if necessary; he will never get well among strangers.”

When father came he was pained beyond expression, and his first thought was for means to do all that must be done.

“Clara has provided that, father,” and he was too thankful to reply.