ed by wild bulls."

"When you go?" repeated Imogen, in a dismayed tone; "but yes, of course
you must go--what was I thinking of?"

"Not while you need me," said Clover, soothingly. "But you are nearly
well now, and will soon be able to do everything for yourself."

"I am absolutely silly," said Imogen, with her eyes full of tears. "What
extraordinary things fevers are! I declare, I am as bad as any child. It
is absurd, but the mere idea of having to give you up makes me quite
cold and miserable."

"But you won't have to give me up; we are going to be neighbors still,
and see each other every day. And you won't be ill again, you know. You
are acclimated now, Dr. Hope says."

"Yes--I hope so; I am sure I hope so. And yet, do you know, I almost
think I would go through the fever all over again for the sake of having
you take care of me!"

"Why, my dear child, what a thing to say! It's the greatest compliment I
ever had in my life, but yet--"

"It's no compliment at all. I should never think of paying you
compliments. I couldn't."

"That is sad for me. Compliments are nice things, I think."

Imogen suddenly knelt down and put her arms on Clover's lap as she sat
by the window.

"I want to tell you something," she said in a broken voice. "I was so
unjust when I came over,--so rude and unkind in my thoughts. You will
hardly believe it, but I didn't like you!"

"I can believe it without any particular difficulty. Everybody can't
like me, you know."

"Everybody ought to. You are simply the best, dearest, truest person I
ever knew. Oh, I can't half say what you are, but I know! You have
heaped coals of fire on my head. Perhaps that's the reason my hair has
fallen off so," with a mirthless laugh. "I used to feel them burn and
burn, on those nights when I lay all scorching up with fever, and you
sat beside me so cool and sweet and patient. And there is more still. I
was jealous because I fancied that Isabel liked you better than she did
me. Did you ever suspect that?"

"Never till you were ill. Some little things that you muttered when you
were not quite yourself put the idea into my head."

"I can't think why I was so idiotic about it. Of course she liked you
best,--who wouldn't? How horrid it was in me to feel so! I used to try
hard not to, but it was of no use; I kept on all the same."

"But you're not jealous now, I hope?"

"No, indeed," shaking her head. "The feeling seems all burnt out of me.
If I am ever