d away as he came three steps nearer her couch.
The wonder of it was not taken, but the old pain returned; rather, the
pain had been there all the time, but he had forgotten for a space. He
saw the ashen and frail face again and the inexpressible weariness of
her eyes, too tired to tell of it, too tired to stay! Then the face of
the English officer appeared for his eyes--hovering back of the people,
in a background of mountains. . . .

Carlin seemed listening. What she heard came out of a grey intolerable
monotony; but still her eyes held his. They seemed concentrated upon
some weakness of his nature--some dementia that had been before her for
years, that had confronted her in every highway of life, frightened
away every opportunity and spoiled every day. Her hand lifted just
slightly, the palm turned toward him:

"Oh, won't you please stop those fever birds?"

. . . Then one day Skag, standing in the darkened library, heard
Margaret Annesley and one of her friends speaking together in the
verandah.

"But does she really hear anything?" the friend asked.

"Oh, yes; though you never hear them unless you are ill with the fever."

"How strange and terrible, and is it a particular fever?"

"Jungle fever, dear. It comes to us sometimes of itself, but more
often after a shock. . . . Carlin's night in the dark--"

Skag's arm lifted in a curve to cover his face as if from a blow. . . .
Yet Margaret Annesley was not quite right; for he had learned to hear
what Carlin heard:

From far away very faint, curiously thin tones came to him; always
repeating one word, with an upward inflection, like a question. Every
repetition sounded the fraction of a degree higher than the last, till
they were far above the compass of any human voice:

"Fee-vur? fee-vur? fee-vur? fee-vur? -- -- --" and on and on.

When it began, quite low, he heard infinite patience in it; gradually,
it grew full of fear; then it climbed into a veritable panic of terror.

When it stopped at last, on a long distracted "u-u-u-r-r-r-r?"--he
heard the male bird's answer, sounding nearer, in deep tones of utter
hopelessness, with a prolonged descending inflection:

"Bhoo-kha-a-a-r-r-r! bhoo-kha-a-a-r-r-r! bhoo-kha-a-a-r-r-r!"--the
Indian word for fever, repeated only three times. Then the female
began again; so, day and night--night and day.

After he had once heard it, he could always hear it. So he learned
that they never rest. Always, by li