could do before Pennington came back with Mrs. O'Mara,
and with or without a doctor. He felt helpless, and as if he had to
stand there and watch her die. He got water and tried to make her
drink it--ineffectually--he filled a hot water bottle and brought it
in, and then thought better of it. She had a fever already. Then he
thought of bathing her in cold water; but he could not bring himself to
do that. He had already done enough that she would hate him for, in
the way of undressing her. He must never tell her he had done
that. . . . But she would hate him anyway. So he ended by sitting
miserably down on the floor beside her, and waiting the interminable
hours that the time seemed until the others returned.

He had expected Mrs. O'Mara to reproach him, as Pennington had, as
being the person to blame for Marjorie's state. But the dear soul,
comforting as always, said nothing of the sort. She said very little
of any sort, indeed; she merely laid off the bonnet and cloak she had
come in, and went straight at her work of looking after Marjorie. Only
on her way she stopped to give Francis a comforting pat on the shoulder.

"It's not so bad but it might be worse," she said. "Anybody might git
them fevers without a stroke of work done. An' she's young an' strong."

Francis looked up at her in mute gratitude from where he sat.

"An' now clear out, lie down and rest, down on the couch or annywhere
ye like, till I see what's to be done to this girl," she went on.

He went out without a word, and sat down on the window-seat, where the
banjo lay, still, and picked it up mechanically. He could see
Marjorie, now, with it in her hands, singing to it for the men--or,
sometimes, just for him. How gay she had been through everything, and
how plucky, and how sweet! And just because she was gay he had thought
she was selfish and fickle, and didn't care. And because she had never
said anything about how hard the work was, he had thought--he could
forgive himself even less for this--that it wasn't hard. Looking back,
he could see not one excuse for himself except in his carrying her off.
That might have worked all right, if he could have kept his temper. He
let his mind stray back over what might have been; suppose he had
accepted Logan's following her up here as just what it was--the whim of
a man in love with Marjorie. Suppose he had believed that Pennington
could kiss his wife's hand without meaning any harm; suppo