Ruth's temples throbbed painfully; she felt weak and tired; toward morning she sank into a heavy sleep. Kemp did not sleep; he kept his face turned from her, trying to quiet his thoughts with the dull lullaby of the rain.
But he knew when she slept; his gaze wandered searchingly around the room till it fell upon a slumber-robe thrown across a divan. He arose softly and picked it up; his light step made no sound in the soft carpet. As he came up to Ruth, he saw with an inward groan the change upon her sleeping face. Great, dark shadows lay about her eyes not caused by the curling lashes; her mouth drooped pathetically at the corners; her temples, from which her soft hair was rolled, showed the blue veins; he would have given much to touch her hair with his hand, but he laid the cover over her shoulders without touching her, and tucked it lightly about her knees and feet. Then he went back to his chair. It was five o'clock before either mother or daughter opened her eyes; they started up almost simultaneously.
Ruth noticed the warm robe about her, and her eyes sped to the doctor. He, however, was speaking to Mrs. Levice, who in the dim light looked pale but calm.
"I feel perfectly well," she was saying, "and shall get up immediately."
"Where is the necessity?" he inquired. "Lie still to-day; it is not bad weather for staying in bed."
"Did not Ruth tell you?"
"Tell me?" he repeated in surprise.
"Of the cause of this attack?"
"No."
"Then I must. Briefly, my husband has been in New York for the past five weeks; he suffered there with acute pneumonia for a week, told us nothing, but hurried home as soon as possible, --too soon, I suppose. Day before yesterday my nephew received a letter stating these facts, and, later, a telegram asking him to come to Reno, where he was delayed, feeling too ill to go farther alone. The first I heard of this was last night, when Ruth received this telegram from Louis." She handed it to him.
As Kemp read, an unmistakable gravity settled on his face. As he was folding the paper thoughtfully, Mrs. Levice addressed him again in her unfamiliar, calm voice,-- "Will you please explain what he means by your understanding?"
"Yes; I suppose it is expedient for me to tell you at once," he said slowly, reseating himself and pausing as if trying to recall something.
"Last year," he began, "probably as early as February, your husband came to me complaining of a cough that annoyed him nights and mornings; he further told me that when he felt it coming, he went to another apartment so as not to disturb you. I examined him, and found he was suffering with the first stages of asthma, and that one of his lungs was slightly diseased already.
I treated him and gave him directions for living carefully. You knew nothing of this?"
"Nothing," she answered hoarsely.
"Well," he went on gently, "there was no cause for worry; if checked in time, a man may live to second childhood with asthma, and the loss of a small portion of a lung is not necessarily fatal. He knew this, and was mending slowly; I examined him several times and found no increase in the loss of tissue, while he told me the cough was not so troublesome."
"But for some weeks before he left," said Mrs. Levice, "he coughed every morning and night. When I besought him to see a doctor, he ridiculed me out of the idea. How did you find him before he left?"
"I have not seen Mr. Levice for some months," he replied gravely.
Mrs. Levice eyed him questioningly, but he offered no explanation.
"Then do you think," she continued, "that this asthma made the pneumonia more dangerous?"
"Undoubtedly."
Her fingers clutched at the sheet convulsively; but the strength of her voice and aspect remained unbroken.
"Thank you," she said, "for telling me so candidly. Then will you be here to-morrow morning?"
"I shall manage to meet him at Oakland with a closed carriage."
"May I go with you?"
"Pardon me; but it will be best for you to receive him quietly at home.
There must be nothing whatever to disturb him. Have all ready, especially yourself."
"I understand," she said. "And now, Doctor, let me thank you for your kindness to me;" she held out both hands. "Will you let Ruth show you to a room, and will you breakfast with us when you have rested?"
"I thank you; it is impossible," he replied, looking at his watch. "I shall hurry home now. Good-morning, Mrs. Levice. There may be small cause for anxiety; and, remember, the less excited you remain, the more you can help him."
He turned from her.
"Ruth, will you see the doctor to the door?"
She followed him down the broad staircase, as in former days, but with a difference. Then he had waited for her to come abreast with him, and they had descended together, talking pleasantly. Now not a word was said till he had put on his heavy outer coat. As he laid his hand on the knob, Ruth spoke,-- "Is there anything I can do for my father, do you think?"
She started as he turned a tired, haggard face to hers.
"I can think of nothing but to have his bed in readiness and complete quiet about the house."
"Yes; and--and do you think there is any danger?"
"No, no! at least, I hope not. I shall be able to tell better when I see him. Is there anything I can do for you?"
She shook her head; she dared not trust herself to speak in the light of his tender eyes. He hastily opened the door, and bowing, closed it quickly behind him.
