Once his uncle coughed, and in the effort drew the coverlet close about his throat, his eyes still shut; but whether from weakness or drowsiness, Harry could not tell.

Presently he shifted his body, and moving his head on the pillow, called softly: "Jemima ?" The old woman bent over him.
"Yes, Marse George." "Give me a little milk--my throat troubles me." Harry drew back into the shadow cast over one end of the cot and rear wall by the low lamp on the hearth.

Whether to slip his hand gently over his uncle's and declare himself, or whether to wait until he dozed again and return in the morning, when he would be less tired and could better withstand the shock of the meeting, was the question which disturbed him.

And yet he could not leave until he satisfied himself of just what ought to be done.

If he left him at all it must be for help of some kind.