We thought our darkest
hour was over when the dear John's telegram came, and the hope helped
us up a little while. To Jock himself it was like a drowning man
clinging to a rope with the more exertion because he knew that a boat
was putting off. At least so it was at first, but as his strength
faded, his brain could not grasp the notion any longer, and he
generally seemed to be fancying himself on the snow with Armine,
still however looking for John to come and save them, and sometimes,
too, talking about Cecil, and being a true brother in arms, a
faithful servant and soldier. The long severe strain of study, work,
and all the rest which he has gone through, body and mind, coming on
a heart already not quite sound, throughout the past year, was, John
thinks, the real reason of his being unable to rally when the fever
had brought him down, after the dreadful exertion at Abville. Dear
fellow, he never let us guess how much his patience cost him. I
think we had looked to John's arrival as if it would act like magic,
and it was very sore disappointment when his treatment was producing
no change for the better, but the prostration went on day after day.
Poor Bobus was in utter despair, and went raging about, declaring
that he had been a fool ever to expect anything from Kencroft, and at
last he had to be turned out of the sick-room.
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