She was thinking of him. He knew that by the patient sweetness of her smile. All the heart went out of him at the sight, and hurrying forward, he put the violin down at her feet, and threw his arms around her neck, and buried his head on her bosom. VIII. After he had made his confession, a restless and feverish night he had of it, often springing up from his troubled dreams and calling to her in the darkness. But the next morning he insisted upon getting up for a while. Towards the afternoon he grew worse again, and took to his bed, the yellow head tossing to and fro, the eyes bright and restless, and his face burning. At length he looked up and said to his mother, in the manner of one who forms a difficult resolution: "Send for the parson. Tell him I am sick and want to see him." It was this summons that the widow Spurlock had delivered on the Sunday afternoon when the parson had quitted the house with such a cry of distress. He had not so much as thought of the boy since the Friday morning previous. [Illustration] "How is it possible," he exclaimed, as he hurried on--"how is it _possible_ that I _could_ have forgotten _him?_" The boy's mother met him outside the house and drew him into an adjoining room, silently, for her tears were falling. He sank into the first chair. "Is he so ill?" he asked, under his trembling breath. "I'm afraid he's going to be very ill. And to see him in so much trouble--" "What is the matter? In God's name, has anything happened to him?" She turned her face away to hide her grief. "He said he would tell you himself. Oh, if I've been too hard with him! But I did it for the best. I didn't know until the doctor came that he was going to be ill, or I would have waited. Do anything you can to quiet him--anything he should ask you to do," she implored, and pointed towards the door of the room in which the boy lay. Conscience-stricken and speechless, the parson opened it and entered. The small white bed stood against the wall beneath an open window, and one bright-headed sunflower, growing against the house outside, leaned in and fixed its kind face anxiously upon the sufferer's. The figure of the boy was stretched along the edge of the bed, his cheek on one hand and his eyes turned steadfastly towards the middle of the room, where, on a table, the violin lay exposed to view. He looked quickly towards the door as the parson entered, and an expression of relief passed over his face. "Why, David," said the parson, chidingly, and crossing to the bed with a bright smile. "Sick? This will never do;" and he sat down, imprisoning one of the burning palms in his own. The boy said nothing, but looked at him searchingly, as though needing to lay aside masks and disguises and penetrate at once to the bottom truth. Then he asked, "Are you mad at me?" "My poor boy!" said the parson, his lips trembling a little as he tightened his pressure--"my poor boy! why should _I_ be mad at _you_?"