evil of forgetfulness and indifference that could never be righted now. Like a child she was grateful for his caress, and his heart twisted in him like a wild and broken thing, and he kept mumbling:
“It’s all right! It’s all right! It’s all right!”—knowing that it was not, could never be, all right.
“If I had known. Child, if I had known,” she wept, as she had wept long before at Grover’s death.
“Brace up!” he said. “He’ll pull through yet. The worst is over.”
“Well, I tell you,” said Eliza, drying her eyes at once, “I believe it is. I believe he passed the turning-point last night. I was saying to Bessie—”
The light grew. Day came, bringing hope. They sat down to breakfast in the kitchen, drawing encouragement from every scrap of cheer doctor or nurse would give them. Coker departed, non— committally optimistic. Bessie Gant came down to breakfast and was professionally encouraging.
“If I can keep his damn family out of the room, he may have some chance of getting well.”
They laughed hysterically, gratefully, pleased with the woman’s abuse.
“How is he this morning?” said Eliza. “Do you notice any improvement?”
“His temperature is lower, if that’s what you mean.”
They knew that a lower temperature in the morning was a fact of no great significance, but they took nourishment from it: their diseased emotion fed upon it—they had soared in a moment to a peak of hopefulness.
“And he’s got a good heart,” said Bessie Gant. “If that holds out, and he keeps fighting, he’ll pull through.”
“D-d-don’t worry about his f-f-fighting,” said Luke, in a rush of eulogy. “That b-b-boy’ll fight as long as he’s g-g-got a breath left in him.”
“Why, yes,” Eliza began, “I remember when he was a child of seven— I know I was standing on the porch one day—the reason I remember is Old Mr. Buckner had just come by with some butter and eggs your papa had—”
