Dr. Kennedy was by this time so much better that Louis was taken to his apartment, where he
ministered to him himself, while the heroic Maude was left to the
care of John. Everything he could do for her he did, but his heart
sunk within him when he saw how fast her fever came on, and heard
her, in her sleep, mourn for her mother, to hold her aching head.
"She mustn't die," he said, and over his dark skin the tears rolled
like rain, as raising his eyes to the ceiling he cried imploringly,
"Will the good Father send someone to help?"
The prayer of the weak African was heard, and ere the sun went down
a man of noble mien and noble heart stood at the maiden's bedside,
bathing her swollen face, pushing back her silken curls, counting
her rapid pulses, and once, when she slept, kissing her parched
lips, e'en though he knew that with that kiss he inhaled, perhaps,
his death! James De Vere had never for a day lost sight of Maude.
Immediately after her return he had written to the physician
requesting a daily report, and when, at last he learned that she was
ill, and all alone, he came unhesitatingly, presenting a striking
contrast to the timid J.C., who had heard of her illness, and at
first, dared not open the letter which his cousin wrote, apprising
him of Maude's affliction.
But when he reflected that he could be re-vaccinated, and thus avert the dreaded evil, he broke the seal and read, commenting as follows: "Jim is a splendid fellow, though I
can't see why he takes so much interest in her. Don't I have
confounded luck, though? That will first, the five thousand dollars
next, and now the smallpox, too. Of course she'll be marked, and
look like a fright. Poor girl! I'd help her if I could," and, as the
better nature of J.C. came over him, he added mournfully: "What if
she should die?"
But Maude did not die; and at the expiration of ten days she was so
far out of danger that James De Vere yielded to the importunity of
his mother, who, in an agony of terror, besought him to return. When
first he came to her bedside Maude had begged of him to leave her
and not risk his life in her behalf; but he silenced her objections
then, and now when he bade her adieu he would not listen to her
protestations of gratitude.
"I would do even more for you if I could," he said. "I am not afraid
of the varioloid, and henceforth I shall think gratefully of it for
having dealt so lightly with you."