“Surely no, my pet.  It’s more asthma than bronchitis; I’ll pull you round, please God.”

Midnight came, and when nurse left the room for a minute she found a small figure crouched down outside the door.

It was Dudley.

“Oh, nurse, he’s very bad, isn’t he?  Is he going to die?  What shall I do!  I shall be his murderer, I’ve killed him!”

Dudley’s eyes were wild with terror, and nurse tried to soothe him.

“Don’t talk nonsense, but go to bed; he’ll be better in the morning, I hope.  It’s just the wet, and the strain of it that’s done it.  There’s none to blame.  You couldn’t help it, and he’s been as bad as this before and pulled through.  Go to bed, laddie, and ask God to make him better.”

Dudley crept back to bed, and flung himself down on his pillows with a fit of bitter weeping.

“She says I couldn’t help it; oh, God, make him better, make him better, do forgive me!  I never thought of this!”

III

MAKING AN OPPORTUNITY

It was two days before Dudley was allowed to see the little invalid.  The doctor had been in constant attendance; but all danger was over now, and Roy as usual was rapidly picking up his strength again.

“His constitution has wonderful rallying powers,” the old doctor said; “he is like a bit of india rubber!”

It seemed to Dudley that Roy’s face had got wonderfully white and small; and there was a weary worn look in his eyes, as he turned round to greet him.

“Now sit down and talk to him, but don’t let him do the talking,” was nurse’s advice as she left the boys together.

Dudley sat down by the bed, and squeezed hold of the little hand held out to him.

“I’m so sorry, old chap,” he said, nervously; “do you feel really better?  I’ve been so miserable.”

“I’m first-rate now,” was the cheerful response; “it’s awfully nice getting your breath back again; it’s only made me feel a little tired, that’s all!”

“It was all me!”

“Why that has been my comfort,” said Roy, with shining eyes; “I felt when I was very bad, that if I died, I might have lived for something.  It would have been lovely to die for you, Dudley—­at least you know to have got myself ill from that reason; it’s so very tame when I get bad from nothing at all; but I’m well again now, so I know God is letting me live to do something else!”

“I was the one that ought to have been made ill to punish me,” blurted out Dudley, and then he was silent.

Roy’s eyes rested on his flushed face with some wonder.

“It wasn’t wicked of you to fall into the river; you couldn’t help it.”

A crimson flush crept over Dudley’s face up to the very roots of his hair; he picked the fringe of the counterpane restlessly between his fingers, and kicked his heels against the legs of his chair.  Silence again:  Roy looked steadily at him; and then an expression of astonishment and bewilderment flitted across his face, followed by one of strange, conviction.