said her mother, "if she were only in her cool and spacious room in our

old home. She says that seems like heaven."

Mr. Bolton sat by Ruth's bedside, and he rose and silently pressed

Philip's hand. The room had but one window; that was wide open to admit

the air, but the air that came in was hot and lifeless. Upon the table

stood a vase of flowers. Ruth's eyes were closed; her cheeks were

flushed with fever, and she moved her head restlessly as if in pain.

"Ruth," said her mother, bending over her, "Philip is here."

Ruth's eyes unclosed, there was a gleam of recognition in them, there was

an attempt at a smile upon her face, and she tried to raise her thin

hand, as Philip touched her forehead with his lips; and he heard her

murmur,

Dear Phil."

There was nothing to be done but to watch and wait for the cruel fever to

burn itself out. Dr. Longstreet told Philip that the fever had

undoubtedly been contracted in the hospital, but it was not malignant,

and would be little dangerous if Ruth were not so worn down with work,

or if she had a less delicate constitution.

It is only her indomitable will that has kept her up for weeks. And if

that should leave her now, there will be no hope. You can do more for

The Gilded Age