THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
Maybe she'd forgive him when she understood everything.
The doctor called. The temperature had not gone any higher, and this was an encouraging sign. Bravely William laid bare his financial predicament. No matter what happened, he was not going to sail under false colors. The doctor told him to put such worries into the background, or there'd be two patients instead of one.
"There's a lot of white men in this world, after all."
"I'll wager," replied the doctor, putting away his thermometer. "When you're in trouble you find out where they are. To-night or to-morrow night we'll come to the crisis. You see, every case of brain fever is individual. No two persons are affected exactly alike. If the fever goes no higher by to-morrow night, then we can breathe easier. It may hang right where it is for a long time, or it may recede at once. You never can tell. To-night and to-morrow night I'll take turns with the nurse, and you can sleep. If a serious turn comes, I'll send for you. She's quieter now."
Ruth's left arm lay outside the coverlet. William laid his hand upon the forearm. It was dry and hot. He raised it gently to put it back under the coverlet, when the two rings caught his eye. The sight of them gave birth to a Quixotic idea. Slowly he slipped off the rings and dropped them into a pocket. When she came to her senses his act would at least save her the shock of immediate
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