But never once did they admit it, even to themselves.
They dared not weaken their efforts with any admissions of a possible defeat.

They just watched, and fought the fever as best they could, and waited, and kept hope alive with fresh efforts.
Cash was tottery weak from his own illness, and he could not speak above a whisper.

Yet he directed, and helped soothe the baby with baths and slow strokings of his hot forehead, and watched him while Bud did the work, and worried because he could not do more.
They did not know when Lovin Child took a turn for the better, except that they realized the fever was broken.

But his listlessness, the unnatural drooping of his whole body, scared them worse than before.
Night and day one or the other watched over him, trying to anticipate every need, every vagrant whim.

When he began to grow exacting, they were still worried, though they were too fagged to abase themselves before him as much as they would have liked.
Then Bud was seized with an attack of the grippe before Lovin Child had passed the stage of wanting to be held every waking minute.