And there one morning when he called to inquire for her, he, too, was smitten down with the fever which he had taken with Daisy’s breath the many nights and days he watched by her without rest or sufficient food. There was a faint, followed by a long interval of unconsciousness, and when he came to himself he was in Daisy’s own room lying on Daisy’s little bed, and Daisy herself was bending anxiously over him, with a flush on her white cheeks and a soft, pitiful look in her blue eyes. "What is it? Where am I?" he asked, and Daisy replied: "You are here in my room; and you’ve got the fever, and I’m going to take care of you, and I’m so glad. Not glad you have the fever," she added, as she met his look of wonder, "but glad I can repay in part all you did for me, you dear, noble Tom! And you are not to talk," and she laid her hand on his mouth as she saw him about to speak. "I am strong enough; the doctor says so, and I’d do it if he didn’t, for you are the best, the truest friend I have." She was rubbing his hot, feverish hands, and though the touch of her cool, soft fingers was so delicious, poor Tom thought of the big frecks so obnoxious to the little lady, and drawing his hands from her grasp hid them beneath the clothes. Gladly, too, would he have covered his face and hair from her sight, but this he could not do and breathe, so he begged her to leave him, and send some one in her place. But Daisy would not listen to him. He had nursed her day and night, she said, and she should stay with him, and she did stay through the three weeks when Tom’s fever ran higher than hers had done, and when Tom in his ravings talked of things which made her heart ache with a new and different pain from that already there. At first there were low whisperings and incoherent mutterings, and when Daisy asked him to whom he was talking he answered: "To that other one over in the corner. Don’t you see him? He is waiting for me till the fever eats me up. There’s a lot of me to eat, I’m so big and awkward, overgrown,—that’s what Daisy said. You know Daisy, don’t you? a dainty little creature, with such delicacy of sight and touch. She doesn’t like red hair; she said so, when we thought the man in the corner was waiting for her; and she doesn’t like my freckled face and hands,—big hands, she said they were, and yet how they have worked like horses for her. Oh, Daisy, Daisy, I have loved her ever since she was a child, and I drew her to school on my sled and cut her doll’s head off to tease her. Take me quick, please, out of her sight, where my freckled face won’t offend her." He was talking now to that other one, the man in the corner, who like some grim sentinel stood there day and night, while Daisy kept her tireless watch and Tom talked on and on,—never to her,—but always to the other one, the man in the corner, whom he begged to take him away.