station and stood still.
It was a hot August morning. The broad streets glowed in the sun, and
the white-shuttered houses stared at the hot thoroughfares like closed
bakers’ ovens set along the highway. Philip was oppressed with the heavy
air; the sweltering city lay as in a swoon. Taking a street car, he rode
away to the northern part of the city, the newer portion, formerly the
district of Spring Garden, for in this the Boltons now lived, in a small
brick house, befitting their altered fortunes.
He could scarcely restrain his impatience when he came in sight of the
house. The window shutters were not “bowed”; thank God, for that. Ruth
was still living, then. He ran up the steps and rang. Mrs. Bolton met
him at the door.
“Thee is very welcome, Philip.”
“And Ruth?”
“She is very ill, but quieter than, she has been, and the fever is a
little abating. The most dangerous time will be when the fever leaves
her. The doctor fears she will not have strength enough to rally from
it. Yes, thee can see her.”
Mrs. Bolton led the way to the little chamber where Ruth lay. “Oh,”
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
her now, sir, than I can?”
“How?” asked Philip eagerly.
“Your presence, more than anything else, will inspire her with the desire
to live.”
When the fever turned, Ruth was in a very critical condition. For two
days her life was like the fluttering of a lighted candle in the wind.
Philip was constantly by her side, and she seemed to be conscious of his
presence, and to cling to him, as one borne away by a swift stream clings
to a stretched-out hand from the shore. If he was absent a moment her
restless eyes sought something they were disappointed not to find.
Philip so yearned to bring her back to life, he willed it so strongly and
passionately, that his will appeared to affect hers and she seemed slowly
to draw life from his.
After two days of this struggle with the grasping enemy, it was evident
to Dr. Longstreet that Ruth’s will was beginning to issue its orders to
her body with some force, and that strength was slowly coming back.
In another day there was a decided improvement. As Philip sat holding
her weak hand and watching the least sign of resolution in her face, Ruth
was able to whisper,
“I so want to live, for you, Phil!”
“You will; darling, you must,” said Philip in a tone of faith and courage
that carried a thrill of determination–of command–along all her nerves.
Slowly Philip drew her back to life. Slowly she came back, as one
willing but well nigh helpless. It was new for Ruth to feel this
dependence on another’s nature, to consciously draw strength of will from