Someone, a tall figure, bent over him, and laid a hand on his forehead.

He looked up and, with a struggle for consciousness, saw that the face above him was Isabel's.
"What's the matter--what is it ?" he asked, and, to his surprise and consternation, his voice sounded hollow and weak.
She dropped on her knees beside him, her hand still on his brow.
"You've been ill," she whispered.

"Don't move.

I don't think you ought to speak.

Stay quite still." "But why ?" he asked, with gentle impatience.